Home
by The Typewriter Girl
Summary: It's been seven days since his dad died. The heavy mass of hurt sitting in his chest had become a regularity, but he wasn't sure if he'd ever be able to get used to life with Derek-freaking-Hale. Of all the people to take him in, why did it have to be him? As always: feels, whump, bromance, and Sterek if you squint.
1. Chapter 1

Stiles stared down at the ivory bistro mug he held loosely in his hands, the untouched coffee inside long since gone cold.

It was January seventh. Seven days since the start of 2015, and seven days since his father's death. His eyes and throat were raw from crying, his insides numb. Stiles blinked, unfazed as he watched another tear fall to the dark liquid below and break the surface in a plethora of tiny ripples.

Happy fucking new year.

He'd been living at home the past week, although it'd been too much of a blur to really reaccount how he spent it. There were tiny snippets of crying softly in his dad's bed, pressing his face into the sheets as if the fabric could smother the reality of the outside world. Wretched panic attacks that reduced him to a quivering, hyperventilating mess on his bedroom floor until he passed out and woke up a few hours later on the carpet with gooseflesh and a headache, wondering if he would be able to endure another one the next day. Sometimes he would sit down in front of the TV and stare at it for lengthy periods of time before realizing that he never even switched it on.

Also, he's pretty sure he hasn't brushed his teeth since last year.

Mrs. McCall had stopped by a lot, knocking softly at the porch and reaching out to wrap him in a warm hug when he opened the door. She would cautiously step into the house and glance around the living room, eyes going misty before she quickly reeled in her gaze and offered her best smile for him, as if his dad's absence didn't make the air thick and heavy and _wrong._ Then she usually murmured a stream of hushed, comforting words before leaving tupperwares of home-cooked casseroles and meals on the table. They had stacked up in his fridge, untouched. He felt bad for wasting her food.

Scott texted him every day. Lydia and the others too, just not as excessively. It was all they could do, since he refused to answer their calls. His phone buzzed from dawn until dusk, the cracked screen lighting up with short phrases of 'how are you?' and 'I'm here if you need me' and 'come over for dinner, we'll pick you up' again and again until he couldn't take it anymore and finally turned the device off, because he knew that seeing any of their faces would only make it worse. They would look at him differently now, with pity etched in their features and eyes filled with uncertainty. They would speak to him as if he were made of glass, ready to shatter at the slightest touch.

The description wasn't too far from the truth.

The plastic clock on the wall behind him ticked softly, but each secondhand stroke cut through the silence like a booming countdown. Stiles slowly turned his head to glance at it, heart sinking a little as he saw the hands. It was 2:01pm. He blew out a shaky sigh, clumsily wiping his sleeve across his damp eyelashes as he reluctantly turned back to his cold coffee.

It was time.

Stiles slowly pushed his chair out away from the table, hauling himself to his feet before quietly trudging over to the door where his suitcases were. The walk felt like he was dragging himself through water, body heavy and uncooperative as if he were dragging a fifty pound weight behind him.

John Stilinski had been a man of sacrifice. He had sacrificed his sleep the countless number of nights Stiles had nightmares or panic attacks in the early hours of the morning, when his dad would stumble into his room with crummy eyes and rub small circles in his back until he fell asleep. His dad had sacrificed his integrity every time he fabricated a lie to tell his deputies in order to cover up some crazy, supernatural-related bullshit that Scott's furry side had dragged him and the pack into. His dad would have sacrificed his badge for him, if it had come down to it.

But seven days ago, he ended up sacrificing his life instead.

Last year, the MRI payments and bills from Eichen House nearly broke them, but his dad had given up his life insurance policy in order to keep the house. It was a risky move, but it had saved them at the time. John was planning on paying it back within a few years, but fate never gave him the chance, which left Stiles without any savings in a house that now belonged to the bank. He had been allowed to stay one week; today, the house was to be foreclosed.

Stiles clasped the cold door handle, dragging his suitcase behind him as he shuffled past the frame and onto the front porch. He paused, fingers curling loosely over the brass knob as he turned back and drank in the last view of the living room he grew up in, savoring the tiny details in hope that they would embed themselves in to his memory for at least a little while. His features were taut and expressionless as his gaze flickered from the ugly beige couch he and Scott used to sit on for movie nights, the pale blue wallpaper dotted with tiny periwinkle flowers his mother had picked out long ago, and his dad's old leather reading chair, now forever unoccupied. His coffee cup was still on the table, where it would stay until one of the realtors came in to sweep through the house and place sticky notes on everything that needed to be 'improved.'

"Thanks for the memories, I guess," he muttered quietly, surprising himself with how hoarse his voice was. Then he swung the door shut, biting his lip as the hinges creaked in agony against the weathered frame, protesting against the movement. He never thought he could resonate with a door.

Stiles made his way over to his jeep, tossing his trunk in the passenger seat as if he were on autopilot. The familiar sound of the engine roared to life as he twisted his keys in the ignition, vibrating the clutch beneath his cold fingers. The human cast one last sad look at the house before finally ripping his gaze away, rolling out onto the pavement and tearing down the street without looking back. Despite the chilly temperature, he refused to roll the windows up as he flew down the road, letting the frigid wind cut through his hair and ruffle his brewing thoughts.

His dad was dead.

If he earned a buck for every time the phrase had echoed in his mind the past week, he'd have enough to pay back the mortgage himself, and then he wouldn't have to spend his Thursday afternoon driving to his new home. The McCalls would have taken him in (God knows Melissa felt terrible), but since Isaac moved there, the house was crammed. Melissa nearly worked herself to death with double-shifts every night already, and with finances overstretched enough, they just couldn't afford to feed another mouth. Lucky for him, his only local relative had passed away last year, and his remaining family members were located out in nowhere-ville Ohio. Thus, Stiles was forced to move in with someone else.

But of all the people, it had to be _him._

He didn't remember that much from that night, aside from the pale, shocked face of his father just before he crumpled to the ground in a bloodied, lifeless heap. It was the face that haunted his dreams, showing up in reflections during the day and leaving imprints in his vision when he blinked. Vaguely, he recalled collapsing boneless and screaming in Scott's arms after it happened, sucking in wretched gasps of air as the rest of the pack hovered uneasily by his side— but _he_ had simply stood there, wide-eyed and stony from afar.

_The bastard,_ Stiles thought bitterly. The past year Derek Hale had made it blatantly obvious that he hated his scrawny guts, taking every given opportunity to shove him up against a wall, growl threats in his ears and roll his eyes whenever he stepped into the room, muttering some snide comment about how spastic or idiotic he was.

So why did he fucking _volunteer_ to take him in?

Sure, Stiles wasn't sleeping much. He could hardly stand being in his old house at all since it happened, but he was pretty sure that sleeping there or even living on the _streets_ would be more comfortable than residing in some giant, burnt-out mansion with a grumpy scowl-enthusiast whose main talent was flaring his nostrils in annoyance. God knows his dad would be rolling over in his grave if he knew, but Melissa had held him by the shoulders and pinned him down with those big brown eyes that looked so much like Scott's, and made him promise to take the alpha's offer. 'Safe,' she had said. Derek would keep him 'safe.'

Stiles huffed, curling his fingers tighter around the steering wheel. When Melissa McCall suddenly started trusting Derek Hale? He didn't know. But one thing for certain was that he didn't need to be coddled, especially not by an oversized grump who, last time he checked, didn't even have 'comfort' in his vocabulary. But maybe that was a good thing, because truthfully, he just wanted to wallow in his grief.

_Alone._

A symphony of fallen leaves crunched beneath his tires as he pulled the jeep up to the house. His eyes grew wide as he killed the engine and stared; it was huge, a towering silhouette of outdated gloom against a foggy, grey-skied backdrop littered with barren trees. Intricate details were carved into the structure's frame— tiny spiral patterns that looked like the triskele tattoo on Derek's back, only these ones were covered in a layer of grey ash and dirty rainwater tracks. The windows were blackened and cracked in places, mirroring the charred wood splintering on the support beams and banisters. It looked like something out of a horror movie; ugly and dark and lonesome, the perfect mirror to the broody soul living inside.

Well, aside from the "ugly" part.

Stiles took his time getting out of the car, stealing nervous glances at the weathered mansion as he hauled his trunk out of the passenger seat. He blinked hard, rubbing a heavy hand over his features as if he were ironing out a wrinkly shirt. Hopefully the introductions wouldn't last too long; he hadn't been sleeping well, and it catching up with him now. His limbs felt heavy as he trudged up the weathered front steps, cringing slightly as the burnt wood creaked noisily under his weight. As he reached the massive oak door, he hesitated mid-knock, knuckles hovering over the wood as he debated wether or not to bolt and live a life of peddling on the streets, promise be damned. Lucky for him, he didn't even need to decide, because then the door suddenly swung open, revealing a scowling Derek Hale.

So much for that.

The alpha stood tensely in the doorway, looking unusually casual in a plain black tee and faded denim jeans. A few awkward moments slipped by as Derek observed him, eyes narrowing a touch as they flickered curiously over his frame, his features almost taking on a look of concern. Stiles uneasily shifted his weight on his heels beneath the werewolf's gaze, grip subconsciously tightening on the handle of his suitcase. Derek seemed to notice and immediately snapped his expression back into an extra-broody scowl, stepping back so that he wasn't blocking the doorway.

"You coming in?" He stated bluntly. The words were spoken carefully, as if he were trying to bite back the harshness in his tone. It wasn't working very well.

"Hello to you, too," Stiles muttered sardonically, but he wiped his feet on the beaten-up mat anyway and cautiously poked his head inside the doorway. He couldn't help but gape as he stepped foot into the living room, faintly registering the charred oak door swinging closed behind him with a rough squeak.

He had never actually been inside the Hale mansion before, but judging from his collective glimpses of the shoddy outside appearance, he never would have guessed the interior would look like this. An intricate glass chandelier hung from the ceiling, illuminating the spacious loft in a warm glow. It was missing a few crystals, but it sparkled like sunlit diamonds. A rustic brick fireplace and large flatscreen were embedded in the wall across a cushioned leather couch and matching armchair, from which a simple maroon rug rolled out over the weathered hardwood floor. The windows were plentiful, smudged with a light film of smoky charcoal residue that filtered the outside light into scattered patterns on the faded buttercream walls, which had a few simple pieces of black and white photography placed over the larger cracks in the paint. There was a small dining table situated by the kitchen, which was old-fashioned and cozy with peeling pinstripe wallpaper and a white tile counter. The place was spotless and oddly beautiful despite it's rough edges. The shabbiness was subtle, barely peeking out behind a layer of carefully-arranged furnishings.

Stiles dazedly walked to the center of the room, feeling slightly dizzy as he craned his neck around, gazing at his surroundings. It was… Nice. Way nicer than he expected. Derek wordlessly side-stepped him from behind, motioning for him to follow with a small jerk of his head.

"Bring your stuff. Follow me."

_Wow, five whole words,_ Stiles mused half-heartedly. He usually voiced such sarcastic thoughts, but lately he couldn't muster the energy to summon the words to his lips. Instead he just silently followed Derek down the hallway, suitcase dragging heavily behind him. The werewolf glanced back at him, eyebrows twitching a fraction before he turned away again, pushing open the first door with the palm of his hand. Stiles wearily peeked into the room, which was spacious and bare. Empty white walls framed a double-paned window, from which the overcast skies spilled a cool light upon a large bed set with fresh pillows and a navy comforter. It smelled clean, with a faint scent of shampoo wafting from the plush, ivory carpet that stretched across the floor, looking too white not to be new.

"This is your room," Derek stated. "If you want the walls a different color, just let me know. I'll get you the paint."

Stiles blinked, nearly choking on his disbelief. He jerked his gaze from the room to stare incredulously at the alpha, who avoided his gaze and spun on his heels to lead him back down the hall. Maybe he had hallucinated. Trauma could do that to you, right? Because there was no way that Derek rip-your-throat-out-with-my-teeth Hale just offered to buy him paint for his beautiful new _bedroom._ Honestly, he had expected to sleep on the couch. A mat on the floor, maybe.

"Hurry up."

Stiles blinked, not realizing that he had just been standing there gaping at the room. _His_ room, apparently. He quickly snapped his mouth shut, letting go of his suitcase to hobble after the werewolf. Derek lead him to the kitchen, which was just as warm and well-poslished as it had looked from the front door.

"Help yourself to whatever is in the fridge and cupboards," Derek announced, reaching up and opening one of the wood cabinets for emphasis. Stiles spotted several boxes of pasta, beef jerky, protein bars, pretzels, and even a half-empty jar of Nutella inside, which surprised him. He wasn't sure what he was expecting (fresh rabbits, maybe?), but crackers and hazelnut spread just seemed so…

Normal.

"If you want anything specific, just let me know before I go to the store," Derek added nonchalantly, bending down to swing open a rolling drawer beside the sink. "Pots and pans are in here, this is where I keep the dishes. You eat on a plate, you clean the plate. The dishwasher isn't there for show."

Stiles nodded, struggling to combat his fatigue as his mind reeled over the werewolf's words. It was almost too much for him, the way Derek was addressing him without a growl or barred fangs, offering to buy him paint and food of his choice all while maintaining that signature (annoying) monotone phrasing. His lips twitched as he thought about blurting, 'don't you ever use inflection?' But the words died again before they even reached his vocal chords.

Derek gave him another funny look, but the expression only lasted only a second before the default scowl clicked into place again. Much to his dismay, the alpha started heading towards the living room, but Stiles couldn't care less about the layout of the house. He had a headache, the same one that had stuck with him chronically the past few days, making sleep impossible while simultaneously reducing him to a sack of exhaustion. He thought of the tempting navy comforter on his new bed, and nearly drooled at the imagery.

Somehow, he managed to make it through the majority of the tour without falling asleep on his feet. Derek took him to most of the rooms, all of which had the same tarnished beauty and rustic design. The fire had left scathing burns on most of the floors and wall space, but it looked like the werewolf had invested quite a bit of time artfully repainting and refurbishing the worst of the damage. There was even a library, equipped with a large armchair and several shelves of antique books that were probably magical, supernatural encyclopedias or some sort of ancient werewolf whatnot. Derek was stiff and formal throughout the entire trip, speaking no more than what little words were needed. He was blunt, even harsh in some of his phrasing, but surprisingly courteous. It wasn't until they finally made it upstairs when Stiles blew out a quiet sigh, tiredly pressing his fingers to his temple before he could stop himself.

"What is it?"

Stiles jerked his hand back down to his side, neck shrinking into his hoodie a bit as Derek scrutinized him, eyebrows drawn together in a curious line.

_Oh, nothing much,_ Stiles thought, a sudden frustration flaring in his chest. _Only that I've slept a total of twelve hours the past week because I'm plagued with nightmares and visions of blood, advil and coffee make up most of my current diet, there's a constant chill clinging to my bones and most of the time my head feels like it's been bashed in with a jackhammer, which is really inconvenient considering how I apparently live with your furry ass now, which should be miserable at best but hey, look on the bright side, the only home I've ever known was just claimed by a bunch of suited assholes at the bank, and oh, yeah, my dad is fucking d—_

"Sorry," Stiles mumbled, voice cracking on the low register. "I'm just… Tired."

Derek studied him, his expression infuriatingly impassive as ever.

"If you want to go to bed, I'm not stopping you," he said flatly. "We're done, anyway. This is my room. I'm not in it much, but try knocking if you need me."

Stiles observed the closed door the werewolf gestured to through half-lidded eyes, briefly wondering what the space looked like on the other side. He envisioned chin-up bars and a double mirror. Derek stepped forward to lead them back down the stairs, but Stiles paused, frowning a little as his gaze wandered down the dimly-lit hallway and caught on something.

"What about that room?" He asked, staring at a battered white door nestled at the end of corridor. It wasn't renovated like the other doors of the house, and was splintered with scaly black burn marks. Derek halted, shoulders tensing slightly. A stretch of silence stung the air, and Stiles felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. This was it. He figured that the stubbly guy would eventually follow through with one of his werewolfy death-threats, but he just didn't expect to have his throat torn out this _soon._

Derek didn't even turn around to face him when he finally spoke, his voice low and dangerously calm.

"You're never to go in there. Ever. Got it?"

Shit. Stiles swallowed nervously as he quietly stepped back, wondering what sore spot he accidentally poked.

"Yeah… Got it."

"Good."

When they reached the bottom of the stairs, Derek broke off towards the living room, pausing briefly to address him.

"There are extra blankets in the closet. Your bathroom is the next door down."

"'Kay… Thanks."

Derek paused. His features did that funny twitch again before he slowly spun on his heels and walked away, adding, "If you have any questions, I'll be in the living room" over his shoulder. Stiles watched him go, thinking that yes, he did have questions. For starters, 'if you can't stand my existence, then why the _fuck_ did you take me in?' He turned back to his room, shoving his suitcase inside before softly shutting the door behind him.

It was even more spacious from inside, and every new detail he observed was like a slap in face. It was brighter, cleaner, and bigger than his old room. A mahogany desk sat across from the window, marked by a simple blue halogen lamp that matched the color of the curtains. The carpet squished softly beneath his feet, reminding him of a cloud. But he didn't want a cloud for a carpet. He wanted his old rug, cheap and faded and marked with the grape soda stain from seventh grade. He wanted his old room, small and shabby as it was, and he wanted his old house.

He wanted his _dad._

Temples pounding, he sucked in a deep breath, forcing his emotions down as he crouched down and fumbled with the outer zipper of his suitcase, fishing out the bottle of Advil he'd stashed there. He knocked a couple pills back, grimacing as he dry-swallowed them. Dazedly he staggered over to the bed and gingerly sat down at the edge of it, noting how the mattress compressed softly under his weight, undoubtedly memory foam. Fingers trembling, he carefully slipped his hand into his sweatshirt pocket, letting out a shaky exhale as his fingers brushed up against the cold metal of his father's badge.

A small hiccup wormed it's way past his lips as he screwed his eyes shut, willing the sobs in his chest to die before they escaped and Derek heard him. _Get a grip,_ he mentally scolded himself, angrily biting down on the inside of his cheek. It didn't help, and within a minute hot tears were slipping down his cheeks, mixing with his snot and dripping off his chin to the plush carpet below. Reluctantly, he uncurled his stiff muscles, letting himself fall back and sink into the mattress. He didn't even bother kicking off his converse as he curled into a fetal position, stomach clenching painfully as silent sobs wracked his frame. He could feel the dented metal of his dad's badge digging painfully into his palm, but he only clenched it tighter, pulling it out in front of his face and examining it as if it were a piece of gold.

_Beacon Hills Police Department: Sheriff John Stilinski_

Stiles traced his thumb over the engraved words, feeling the minuscule nicks and dents in the brass. His lips quivered as they parted, and he tasted salt as fresh tears slipped between them and onto his dry tongue. The cracked whisper escaped his lips before he could stop it.

"I hope you said hi to mom for me."

* * *

><p>Hello! Hope you don't mind that story #6 is a bit different from my others. I really wanted to explore the relationship between Derek and Stiles for this one. Please let me know what you think! Follows, faves and reviews make the effort worth it :) To see the accompanying <strong>artwork<strong> I did, **find this fic on AO3** or **find me on tumblr** at **Stiles-and-the-sourwolf**. New chapters coming soon. Love, The Typewriter Girl.


	2. Chapter 2

Derek sat stiffly on the couch in the living room, absently rubbing his thumb over the corner of one of the yellowed pages of the book he was pretending to read.

He could hear the kid crying softly from the bedroom, breaking the usual silence of the house with tiny, muffled sobs. It had started just as soon as his jeans made contact against the worn leather, and hadn't ceased in the twenty minutes that had dragged by since. It was agony— not because the noise was irritating, but because of the internal storm each quiet hiccup exacerbated.

He thought about going in. To offer a glass of water or mutter 'there, there' or something, but he kept beating away the thought. What was he going to do— Console him? _Hug_ him? Read him a bedtime story? He wouldn't know how to comfort if the step-by-step instructions punched him in the face. He'd proven that to himself within five minutes of Stiles walking though the front door, demonstrated by his inability to address the kid like a normal human being, especially someone who just lost their father. Instead of soft condolences and sensitive affirmations, he'd just spat out blunt, choppy sentences and instructions, like the big heartless brute Scott and the others thought he was.

He never even said, 'sorry for your loss.'

Derek huffed dourly, gaze stationary and unfocused upon the small print of the page. He would probably just embarrass the kid, anyway. They were hardly even on speaking terms let alone a friendship level, and every time he tried to talk to him the words always just turned into harsh growls the moment he set eyes upon that pale, stupid face.

So why did he fucking _volunteer_ to take him in?

He had invited spastic, smartass, too-selfless-for-his-own-good _Stiles_ to come live with him, and he wanted to kick himself for it. For blurting, 'I'll take him' in front of the McCalls at the funeral last Tuesday, after overhearing Melissa brokenly explain to Scott that they couldn't afford to have him move into their house. He'd watched her squeeze the teen by the shoulders in the corner by the door, eyes going glassy as her son protested and pleaded beneath her grasp with frustrated whispers —_but mom, no, please! They're going to take his house! He isn't eighteen yet, they're g-going to send him away to_— and the next thing he knew he was standing in front of them, jaw tense and eyebrows drawn together with the words jumping out between his lips before he even realized it.

_I'll take him._

Like Stiles was some kind of damn pet up for adoption.

The pair had stiffened, jerking back slack-jawed and bug-eyed as if he had just slapped them. A few agonizing moments trickled by where they stared at him like that, speechless while he internally panicked, willing himself not to twitch and betray his consternation or break away from their gazes. Good thing he had that down to an art.

Derek sighed, softly snapping his book shut before setting it down in his lap. He guessed it was the way the kid's face had crumpled after his father dropped lifeless and bloodied in front of him that day, followed by the agonized scream that tore from his throat as he fell back against his best friend immediately afterwards, as if it were his own chest that just been ripped open. The others —Lydia, Allison, Isaac— quickly flocked to him and Scott, faces pale and eyes glimmering with hands clamped over their mouths in horror. The _appropriate_ reaction. They approached Stiles stiffly, like nervous deer hesitant to wander out into the open, but ventured closer anyway because the human needed them by his side. But _him?_ He had just stood off awkwardly in the middle of the wooded clearing, unable to make his legs move. He could only stare at the wailing teen in silent shock, too much of a coward to take even one step forward.

Because he knew what it was like to lose his entire family, and seeing Stiles lose his chilled him to the bone.

He'd seen the way Stiles looked at his father. How his eyes went wide with fear whenever John was in danger, or the little disapproving lines that spilled out across his brow whenever he caught his dad eating fast food at the station. Comparably, he'd noticed the same crinkles run across the Sheriff's forehead whenever he looked at his kid, because John had eventually realized that there was no stopping Stiles from flinging himself into danger if it meant saving his friends, despite being the most mortal of them all. If that made John feel as helpless as he suspected, then it was something he and the Sheriff had in common.

But the truth was, John never trusted him. Not even after he was proven innocent and cleared from last year's alleged murder, because the man equated Derek with the reason his son came home late beat-up and injured after crazy brawls with other packs, and he hated him for it. For dragging his beloved, human son into all the dangerous supernatural bullshit he and the pack got tied up in. And Derek didn't blame him, because a part of him hated himself for it too.

He blinked down at his hands, perturbed as he remembered the blood that had saturated them a week prior. In a way, he declared himself at fault. He was an alpha —older than Scott and more experienced— and therefore should have been able to reach Kali in time, before her claws raked through the Sheriff's ribcage like razors to a sheet of silk. If he had just been faster. Stronger. _Better._ Then he could've hauled himself up from the ground and slashed her throat before she got to him.

Not _after_ she did.

Regardless, Stiles's dad would probably rise from the grave and wring his neck if he knew he was housing his son.

Peter had looked at him in disgust when he found out, which was nothing unusual, except for the harsh, barking laugh that accompanied his sneer. The cold, wild grin, as if the notion of his nephew housing Scott's human friend was biggest joke he had heard since discovering that Derek was the only other survivor of the fire. '_You're letting the little hyperactive toothpick stay with you,_' he had spat incredulously, amusement twisting the corner of his lip. _'You'll break his neck within a week!'_ Then he had looked to the side, the laughter in his face fading into a canvas of bitter disappointment. _'At least I hope you do, for your own sake. You're running dangerously close to turning soft… Well, softer than you already are,'_ and eyed him up and down as if he were some fallen piece of trash that someone had kicked to the gutter.

The description wasn't too far from the truth.

And he had stood and taken his uncle's scorn in silence like he always did, unable to find any words to bite back with. A part of him knew that Peter was right; he was an alpha who ran around with a pack of misfit teenagers, lived in his family's old crispy-fried house because he didn't have the heart to move out, and as of late offered to take in a broken kid without any parents in hope that maybe —just _maybe_— he could help somehow.

He was soft.

_'You'll break his neck within a week'_

The question was whether or not he wanted to be.

He'd asked himself again when he heard the soft rumble of an engine slowly make itself known from the distance, followed by the squeak of car tires grinding to a halt in the driveway. An unexpected apprehension had struck him just then, while he got up and strode over to the door, listening to Stiles slam shut the jeep and slowly make his way up the front porch. He'd waited there, hesitating when he didn't hear a knock from the teen standing on the other side, and an equally unexpected twinge of hurt pinched beneath his breastbone when he realized that Stiles was debating wether or not to bolt.

As soon as the thought crossed his mind he'd grabbed the brass handle out and yanked open the door, making the teen jerk back a bit in surprise. Derek couldn't help but stare. Stiles looked like he had been left out in the rain for a week and then stuck in a toaster to dry. He was pale, rumpled, and had dark bruises staining the crescents beneath his sunken eyes. That was the first thing he'd noticed, was his eyes. They were dark and blank, red-rimmed from crying and lack of sleep instead of the warm amber they usually were. It was…

Strange.

It made him look _wrong._

Throughout the short tour of the house, it became clear that his father's death had bruised Stiles in more ways than one, subtly worming into his mannerisms and overshadowing his aura like a dark cloud. Normally the human brandished his ADHD status with pride, and lived up to the reputation; a constantly-moving, blabbering idiot who was always twiddling his fingers and bouncing on his heels and twitching his nose as if an electric current ran through him— only now his posture was slack and still, moving sluggishly like a machine rusted over by his own salty tears. Something else Derek had come to notice about him was his perpetually perturbed face, and the way his mouth always hung open a little bit, as if very life perplexed and startled him. But today his lips were still and closed, as if life had startled him in a way where nothing else could shock him again. It disturbed Derek, and he struggled not to let it show as he led Stiles to all the rooms, stealing curious glances at the teen's half-mast gaze, trembling fingers, and unruly hair, which was even messier than usual. He kept getting whiffs of his breath, and it smelled like he hadn't brushed his teeth in a week.

But most disturbing of all was that Stiles was quiet. Not a single sarcasm-laced comment or witty jest was jabbed in his direction the entire time, which was unsettling considering how the kid's pride and joy was his ability to wield sass, particularly towards him. A couple times he thought he saw the human's lips twitch with the thought of a sardonic response, but then his eyes would dim and his shoulders would deflate a little, as if he didn't see the point. Derek found himself suddenly regretting all the times he had ever barked at him to shut up; until today, he never imagined that he would be dismayed by Stiles's lack of incessant jabbering.

And he would never admit it.

The alpha was yanked from his thoughts as he registered the returned silence of the room. The crying had stopped. Hopefully the kid had fallen asleep, considering how drained he'd looked upon arrival. Throughout the entire tour he'd been dead on his feet, blinking heavily and swaying slightly with every step, as if he would tip over with the gentle push of a breeze. Derek remembered how he had been the same after the fire, unable to catch a wink of sleep for weeks after it happened. To this day, he still got nightmares once in a while— horrible visions of neon orange flames and thick black smoke that would wrap around him like long fingers, suffocating him until he jerked awake in a cold sweat, the screams of his family members still ringing in his ears.

Derek looked down to his lap, flipping over the book in his hands so that the cover stared up at him. _One Hundred Years of Solitude_ by Gabriel García Márquez. He frowned, absently chewing on the inside of his cheek. _How ironic,_ he thought, that he happened to grab _this_ book off the shelf before sitting down. He felt like he had lived one hundred years of solitude in the six years he'd resided in his family's empty mansion, trying in vain to erase the echo of the silence in his ears and pretend that the rooms upstairs weren't really vacant. But wasn't it odd, because Stiles had also been living in solitude the past week, probably trying to do the same in the unoccupied hallways where his father used to walk.

Only when Stiles walked through his front door, they weren't in solitude anymore.

They both had company.

* * *

><p>Thank you so much for the reviewsfollows/favorites! It means so much. Again, accompanying artwork is on AO3 or my new Tumblr at **stiles-and-the-sourwolf.** New chapters are in progress! Love, The Typewriter Girl.


	3. Chapter 3

Life at the Hale house was kind of dull, to be honest.

Stiles spent most of his time in the room Derek gave him, which (despite his stubborn efforts to remain loyal his old room) was starting to grow on him. It was quiet, spacious, and the bare atmosphere seemed to dampen his anxiety much more than a paper bag ever could. In particular he took a liking to the bed, which like like a plushy nest of downy feathers wrapped up in what he estimated to be seven-hundred thread count sheets. He thought it was strange; before he left home it was impossible to get some sleep, but now sleep was impossible to resist. The ultra-soft pillows Derek provided him with only encouraged his droopy eyelids, and for the most part he would just knock back a couple of Advils, crawl beneath the fluffy comforter and conk out for most of the day. It was easier that way, instead of being left awake with his grief.

He cleaned up his messes, wiped the fallen toothpaste from the sink and all that jazz (after he caught Derek wrinkling his nose upon his arrival, he figured he'd better start brushing again). Outside of bed kept to himself, which was fine because Derek kept to himself, too. In fact they hardly even saw each other outside the couple times a day when he would drag himself out from underneath the covers and stumble to the bathroom or wander into the kitchen for a glass of water, often passing the inscrutable werewolf on the couch or doing chin-ups on the bar by the front windows. Derek would always stiffen upon hearing his quiet venture out across the hardwood floors, often pausing briefly to glance back at him with those stupid furrowed eyebrows, but never uttered a word in his direction. It both pleased and infuriated Stiles at the same time, because he never felt much like talking anyway, but still— it would be nice to know what the hell the stubbly grump was thinking once in a while.

Writing words, however, was apparently something the werewolf could deal with. Sometimes Stiles would come out to kitchen and discover little notes on the counter, scrawled in messy all-caps like his dad used to do.

_WENT FOR A RUN— LEFTOVER PASTA IN FRIDGE_

_GETTING GROCERIES— CALL IF YOU WANT ANYTHING_

They always amused him, making him huff out little humorless chuckles that sounded more like perplexed sighs. He didn't know why the guy bothered, but a small part of him liked the notes anyway.

It continued like that for about a week. He became accustomed to his daily routine of sleep, Advil, take a piss, repeat. Numb away the world, block out the surly werewolf brooding down the hall. The silence filled the halls like an empty dream, stark in contrast to the vivid night terrors that plagued his mind during sleep, although for whatever reason those hadn't been reoccurring as often since he moved in. He thought maybe it was the memory foam, because it certainly had nothing to do with the alpha in the other room, who acted like there was an invisible wall between them. The yellow sticky notes kept appearing, and each time Stiles would shortly debate if he should actually take up any of the offers, but always shied away from the thought, leaving them untouched on the counter before quietly returning to the bedroom. If he came out again later, they would be gone, added to the discarded pile in the kitchen wastebasket. Derek never mentioned it, and Stiles never brought it up.

He just was starting to accept the fact that they would never interact when the creak of fast, heavy footsteps sounded from down the hall, interrupting his thoughts as he lay in bed, absently watching the late afternoon sun cast grey fingered shadows across his comforter.

His gaze shot to the door, perplexed as they quickly thundered closer. It reminded him of a coming storm, and distantly he realized that something was wrong— that Derek never went out of his way to seek him out, or walked with such tenacity, that he must be _angry_— which made his heart rate jump just before the door swung open and slammed against the wall with a loud 'bang' as Derek suddenly barged into his room, looking pissed off and ready to break something.

Stiles jerked, limbs flailing in surprise because _holy shit_ —Derek Hale was in his _room_— as the alpha strode forward with nostrils flared and eyebrows drawn, making a beeline for his bed.

"Whoa, h-hey! Ever heard of knocking?!" He cried, scrambling backwards against the headboard as he frantically ransacked his memory for what he could have done to condemn himself to death by werewolf fury, because Derek was clearly about to kill him. Did he forget to put away some dishes? Leave his socks on the couch? But that was impossible, because he had hardly stepped foot outside his—

"H-hey— _hey!_ What the _FUCK,_ dude!?" Stiles squawked, heart hammering wildly as Derek marched over and grabbed fistfuls of his comforter, violently ripping the covers from his body with a strong yank. He yelped and curled in on himself as the cold air bit through his thin pajamas and grazed his skin, igniting waves of gooseflesh over his arms and legs. The small part of his brain that wasn't panicking appreciated the fact that at least he had on a pair of sweats and a shirt, and that he wasn't just wearing his boxers.

"What the _hell_ your _problem!"_ He screeched angrily, absolutely bewildered as Derek haughtily kicked the comforter to the floor, just out of his reach. He tried to sound intimidating, but his voice was raw and crackly from lack of use, and it was kind of hard when a big muscly werewolf was suddenly all up in your space ripping away your warm blankets.

"That's it. Get up," Derek spat flatly, eyes hard and scrutinizing as his steely gaze swept up and down his huddled figure on the bed, which made Stiles feel very uncomfortable. "You reek," he added bluntly, nose wrinkling a touch. "I can smell you from the other room. You need to take a shower."

Stiles stared incredulously up at the werewolf from his fetal position, face flushing violently. He willed the tremors in his body to die down (because hey, having Derek Hale unexpectedly barge into his room was mildly terrifying, okay?), but then he curled his fingers tighter into his sheets, clamping his lips together as a flood of defensive anger overrided his startlement. Sure, his hair was a little greasier than what he was comfortable with and had started to stick to his forehead, and he may or may not be able to smell something sour whenever he streched out his arms, but his hygiene was _his_ business. He would get up and shower when he was good and ready; that was no excuse for the asshole to invade his privacy and demand it.

"I do _not_ smell!" He protested, biting his lip angrily as Derek's eyebrow shot to the ceiling. It was a weak lie, even to his own ears, but he glared deeper anyway. "You can't just flash your alpha eyes and boss everyone around because your little _wolf_ nose is in distress," he snapped challengingly, shocking himself with the level of spite in his voice. He knew he was putting himself in dangerous territory by daring to taunt him like this, but the attitude spilled over anyway, like an uncontrollable gush from a blocked off waterline.

To his surprise, Derek's fuming gaze actually lessened a fraction at the remark, and Stiles forced himself to hold eye contact before turning over so that his body faced the other direction. Feeling thoroughly ruffled, he buried his face back into his pillow and added a muffled, "fuck off."

There was a small pause. Stiles held his breath; he could practically feel the alpha's glare burning a hole into his back. For a split second, he thought that Derek would simply turn around and leave, and they would go back to their daily routine of mutual silence and occasional side-glances, one wolf and one human living together in solitude under the same barbecued roof— but then a calloused hand wrapped around his ankle and yanked his leg off the bed, sending him sprawling to the carpet in a tangle of limbs with a very manly yelp.

_"DUDE—!"_

"No. It's time," Derek cut in firmly, voice clipped and definite as he stared down at him. "Get your ass out of bed."

Stiles clumsily scrambled into a sitting position, wincing as he pressed a hand to his lower back, which was throbbing from where he had landed. He glowered up at the alpha and opened his mouth to throw out another protest, but Derek narrowed his eyes, nostrils flaring in warning, which was enough to make him clamp his lips back together and bite his tongue. He was too tired to argue anyway, and quite frankly, he preferred his face unmarred by a fist.

"Fine, I'm going! Okay? Fricken' werewolves," he muttered, scowling as he pushed himself up from the ground, using the edge of his mattress for leverage. Derek wordlessly bent down to grab the crumpled sheets and blankets on the floor, scooping them up into his arms. As the werewolf straightened up, his eyes flickered briefly to his suitcase, which sat rejected in the corner by the closet, yet to be unpacked. Stiles swallowed nervously, pushing away a small pinch of guilt, but Derek turned away and strode back towards the door, pausing only to repeat "take a shower," over his shoulder in a tone that wasn't quite as harsh as the first time. Then he walked out, taking the bundle of sheets and blankets with him, and Stiles wondered if it was because he was going to wash them.

Slowly, the teen straightened up and shakily rubbed the back of his sleeve across his nose, feeling the pounding in his chest gradually die down as he stared at the spot where Derek had stood a few seconds earlier.

What the actual _fuck?_

* * *

><p>He was still figuring it out as he stepped out of his sweats, listening to the rush of the running water fill the bathroom and and kiss the mirrors with steam.<p>

It was a nice bathroom, clad with fluffy blue rugs and a smooth granite sink. He figured Derek must have put new tile floors down, because he couldn't find a single smudge anywhere betraying the fire, or any on any of the walls either. He wondered how much the guy had spent refurbishing everything, and why he didn't use the money to move in to a new place instead.

Stiles tugged off his shirt, tossing it on top of his crumpled pants before stiffly stepping foot inside the stall and closing the glass door. He flinched as the jet stream hit his shoulders, not expecting the pleasurable pelt of the hot water on his skin. Dolefully it occurred to him that the past couple weeks had been so entirely composed of pain and heartache that the small sensation of comfort felt foreign and strange.

And _good._

Stiles shuddered, tipping his head back as he felt his eyes flutter closed on their own accord. He let the shower envelop him, wrapping him in a warm shroud of wet that slipped over his muscles and ironed out all the painful kinks that he hadn't even been aware of. A heavy exhale escaped his lips, and it was like like he was spewing out half the empty bitterness that had built up over the past couple weeks. Then he inhaled deeply through his nose, relishing in how the hot steam filled his lungs and tickled his throat.

He stayed like that for a while, allowing the liquid to lick down his spine and wash away the outer layer of his grief. He knew that not even a thousand showers could clean him entirely from the memory of that day, but in this moment it was nice to let go —just for a little bit— and let the water strip away the physical grime. Small tremors rippled down his belly as the shower jets nibbled his hairline and ran through his scalp, cascading down his shoulders in watery ribbons that absorbed the painful knot in his chest and took it with them down the drain. Before long he realized that his own tears were adding to the wetness on his face, intertwining with the dewy beads sticking to the fuzz on his cheeks and becoming one with them before rolling off his jawline and plummeting to his feet. But these were good tears, the first of their kind since last year.

Tears of relief.

And Stiles let himself cry, feeling oddly comfortable with the way his body jerked with deep, dizzying sobs that expelled the bottled up anguish that he'd been repressing the past couple weeks. It didn't dislodge all of the pain, but it lessened it just enough so that he felt like he would be able to wake up and endure it again the next day, and in the days to come. Gradually his blubbering ran it's course and died down, leaving him lose and pliant like a wrung-out rag. It was a nice change, he thought, instead of the rusty, machine-like quality his muscles had acquired. As the water pounded gently against his hairline, his consciousness was massaged into a wandering train of thought.

He wondered how long he would stay here. The school had given him the semester off, but the winter months would soon bleed into spring, which would then stretch into summer before reaching the next school year, and that was a long time to spend around the house with Derek Hale, whose primary method of communication was eyebrow-furrowing and cryptic expressions. He wasn't sure how long he would be able to stand it before the tension and the silence and that stony, stupid face would get to be too much, but still— despite how they hardly uttered a word to each other, there was a small comfort derived from knowing that the alpha was just down the hall. They had each other's company, but how much did that really matter if they never acknowledged it?

He sighed, feeling the cool rush of his breath brush over his damp chest. It wasn't even much of a decision.

As soon as he turned eighteen in March, he was leaving.

Stiles blinked his eyes open, feeling beads of water break apart on his eyelashes. He glanced to the small shelf to his left, notching the colorful lineup of soaps and shampoos. There were several bottles, all of which were notably nice brands of conditioner, shaving cream, body wash, and something called _'l'essence de citron'_ body butter, which looked very fancy and also very tasty but probably wasn't for eating. There was even a loofah sponge hanging from a small hook to the side, and Stiles had never used one but he was pretty sure he had heard Lydia and Allison talking about them on more than one occasion. Tentatively he reached out and picked up a slim bottle of mint-scented shampoo, tightening his slippery grip on it as the weight tugged his hand down. It was full; unopened. They all were. Derek must have gone out and bought them for his stay.

Huh.

He tipped the bottle upside-down, snapping the cap open with a slight push of his thumb. The clear green gel oozed out onto his fingers, releasing a sharp scent of mint that stung his nostrils and reminded him of chilly mornings and fresh air, and Stiles sucked in a deep drag of it as he scrubbed a dollop into his scalp. The shampoo lathered his hair and left it squeaky and smooth as it rinsed away, and he selected the body butter next, because why not. The drain slurped and sputtered with the influx of soapy bubbles that slipped down his calves and over his feet like foamy shoes, spraying the air with the scent of oranges and cinnamon and clean.

And he _loved_ it.

Stiles finally turned off the tap when the water started to run cool and he caught himself swaying slightly, flirting with the idea of falling asleep in the stall. He stepped out and glanced at himself in the mirror as he dried himself off, thinking that he looked different somehow from when he first undressed. He couldn't figure out what it was at first, but then it clicked that his cheeks were now flushed with color, and his eyes shone with a brightness that they hadn't since before New Year's. The change wasn't that significant, but it was enough to make him mentally note to take more showers in the future.

He shuffled out of the bathroom with a plush white towel wrapped around his waist, and another one draped over his arm that he used to rub the wetness from his hair. His nose and cheeks were still hot and blotchy from the steam, and he sniffled a bit as he shook the damp bangs from his eyes, noting with a frown how the freckled skin over his his bare chest was pink as well. Upon reaching his room he wrapped a pruney hand around the doorknob, but stopped instinctually and looked up, catching Derek staring at him from the kitchen. The alpha's gaze was guarded and impassive as always, but this time his lips were parted just a little bit and his eyes were wider than usual, and Stiles offered him a tiny nod of thanks, because he wanted to say 'thank you' for the shower, but words weren't Derek's style.

* * *

><p>Thus, when Derek actually speaks to him the next day, Stiles nearly craps his pants.<p>

"You should eat something."

Stiles chokes, spitting out a small spray of water that dribbles down his chin and splatters to the kitchen tile below in a chorus of wet slaps. Charming. He hastily wipes the liquid off his skin with his sleeve, swiveling around to face the werewolf in the corner, whose nose is tucked firmly into a thick, yellow-paged novel. Stiles didn't notice him sitting there in the chair by the bookshelf, clad in what looked like a comfortable grey v-neck and sweats. That wasn't fair. No one should look good in sweats.

A flat "What?" Is all he can manage as his toes curl into the laminate floor, fingers clamping tighter around the glass he held in his hand.

"You haven't been eating any of the leftovers," Derek states matter-of-factly, eyes still glued to his book. "You should eat something."

Stiles stiffened. It was true, that he wasn't eating much aside from the occasional protein bar he fished out from the cupboard. His trips to the kitchen were almost always solely dedicated to fetching glasses of water or a seven-up if he was in the mood, but he didnt think the werewolf had noticed. Food just hadn't appealed to him lately, making his stomach twist uncomfortably whenever he thought about the tastes and textures of anything more exciting than white rice. He hadn't even been bothering to open the fridge —God knows what kind of leftovers Derek was referring to— Oh, crap. What if he thought he was being rude? What if—

"Calm down."

Derek's sigh slices into his thoughts and catches him off guard before he remembers that _right_, werewolves can hear heartbeats.

"I'm not angry," Derek continues, peeling his eyes up to look at him, and Stiles stops breathing for a second because this was the first time Derek had really looked at him without his pissy eyebrows on, and it was striking how open and smooth his expression looked without them. "But you should get a meal in you," he concludes, returning to his book. "Come out for dinner later."

Stiles stares at him, because this was officially the weirdest thing to happen since he moved in. Even weirder than when the guy burst into his room and yanked him off the bed, because at least that was somewhat violent and brawnish and _expected_ behavior from someone like Derek Hale, but inviting him to eat dinner with him was _not._ And if Stiles didn't know him better, he would say that the werewolf was subtly hiding his concern beneath the offer.

"Uh…'Kay," is what finally pops out of his mouth before he breaks his puzzled gaze away to go back to his room, where his bed is waiting for him.

He must sleep for a while, becasue when he wakes up the sky is bruised with dusk. A cold blue light rains down upon the scattered trees outside his window, and the smell of something savory and delicious is leaking into his room. The scent triples in intensity as he pushes open his door and follows his nose into the kitchen, where he finds Derek sitting at the dining table, digging a spoon into a heaping pile of buttery mashed potatoes, which steam beside a perfectly-trimmed T-bone steak drowning in it's own juices. Stiles's mouth falls open, because the rest of the potatoes are in a crock pot on the counter, and another steak sizzles in a frypan on the stove, still hot.

"You _cook?"_ He blurts out, and he feels his eyebrows shoot up to his hairline. By 'dinner,' he expected takeout. Instant ramen, maybe— but a home-cooked meal?

Derek stops chewing a moment to shoot him a deadpan look.

"What, do you think I just eat fast food all the time like you used to?" He states calmly, shoveling another mountain of potatoes into his mouth. Stiles bites his lip and carefully inches closer to the stove, to confirm that the steak in the pan isn't actually freshly killed rabbit flanks or something. It isn't, and it smells even better up close.

"I dunno, I just figured you… Cooking is just so… Normal," He mutters weakly, glancing back at Derek, who's sawing into his T-bone. It cuts away like butter.

"I know this may come as a shock to you, but werewolves don't kill and eat rabbits," Derek replies wryly, voice thick around the chunk of meat in his mouth. Stiles purses his lips as he side-glances the potatoes in the crock-pot, because that had totally been his firm suspicion ever since first learning about werewolves. He knew Scott would never, but _Derek…_

"Sit down and eat."

Stiles hesitates, but cautiously eyes the spot at the table across from the alpha, where a plate has been set down for him. Derek doesn't look up as he takes it and carries it to the stove, mouth watering as he observes the seared flank in the pan. It looks tender and well-seasoned, medium rare and a rich pink in the middle around the bone, saturated in red juice that looks like…

_Blood._

Stiles takes a step back. A hand flies to his mouth with the sudden nausea because the meat looks just like _flesh_— his father's flesh and bone when his chest was sliced open— and suddenly he's back in the woods that night, where his dad's sightless gaze and bloodied, lifeless body flash before his eyes like a tape on rewind. The empty plate in his hands drops down onto the stove with a jarring 'clang' and Derek's head snaps up in his direction, undoubtedly picking up the spike in his heart rate. Stiles whirls around, nearly tripping over his feet as he shakily backs towards the hallway, silently cursing himself because he must look like a spooked horse. He feels a blush creeping up his neck as the werewolf stares at him, looking like he's putting something together and is about to stand up and announce it, but Stiles doesn't want to hear it.

"I…" He starts, but his voice cracks on the word as another image of carnage strobes in his mind. "Sorry, I c-can't."

And before Derek could summon a response he bolts back to his room, his hunger long forgotten with the empty plate on the stove.

* * *

><p>After that, Derek didn't mention dinner again. Stiles took it as a excuse to continue with his routine of hiding in bed, using sleep to fast-forward through the days as his lack of appetite ran rampant, manifesting in his steadily declining diet of painkillers, tap water and protein bars. His energy levels plummeted with the decision, but his grief seemed stubbornly intent on preventing a fork from reaching his mouth, even when his hunger pushed through and pestered.<p>

Nothing compared to the inner turmoil he faced upon wandering out to kitchen, on instances when Derek was there eating at the table. The guy was always tucking into some sort of mouth-watering pasta or filet he threw together in a pan (Stiles still couldn't believe he actually _cooked_), and if not then it was some kind of fancy sandwich or jerky. Regardless, the werewolf would always pause to glance up at him, and Stiles would always avert his eyes in embarrassment. One morning it was an orange, and Derek peeled off a few sections and wordlessly held it out to him, but Stiles refused, like he always did. Instead he grabbed a Cliff bar from the cabinet above the counter and returned to his room, not wanting to repeat the incident with the steak.

He didn't think much of it until he caught sight of himself in the mirror one day, before stepping into the shower. Faint fog marks spilled out against the glass as he leant forwards, peering at the thin figure reflecting back at him. His cheeks were hollow beneath his sunken eyes, like someone had taken a chisel to his flesh and accidentally chipped off too much. The sallow pallor of his skin looked ghostly beneath the fluorescent lighting of the bathroom, like the saturation had been sucked away and redistributed beneath his eyes, where the circles were far too dark for the amount he slept. He brought up a hand, delicately tracing his fingers over his collarbones and down to his navel, where his ribs protruded sharply beneath his pale skin. It shocked him; he'd noticed the way his clothes had started to hang looser in places, but he didn't think his disinterest in food had taken that much of a toll.

Still, it doesn't really hit him until he passes out in the living room.

He wakes up that afternoon feeling ill, even more so than usual. His head had taken on a certain ache as of late, one that no amount of pain relievers could take away, and he was running low on those. With a groan he squints at the clock by his bedside and blinks the numbers into focus, wincing as he reads a fuzzy '4:05pm.' Shit. He'd been sleeping later than usual, but this was exceptional. He tries to think back to what time he fell asleep the previous night (or was it this morning?) but lately time and events had been bleeding together, leaving his memory strung along in blurry fragments.

The world spins as he lurches himself into a sitting position, and the pounding in his head doubles with the change in altitude. With a grimace he quickly presses a cool palm against his temple, willing the painful jackhammering to subside. Damn, was he sick? The sheets wrinkle beneath his grip as he reaches over and fumbles for the bottle of Advil on his nightstand, frowning when he doesn't hear a rattle upon picking it up. A quick shake confirms that it's empty.

Great.

He chucks it miserably across the room, digging his fingers into the mattress as a wave of nausea rolls over him with the movement. He blinks hard, swallowing dryly as he runs a clammy hand across his forehead. How does one even _get_ sick when they never go outside? For a moment he thinks maybe he ate something bad, but that can't be right because he hadn't been eating much of anything lately, unless there was something foul in the tap water. Maybe if he got some fresh air— people do that when they feel like death, right?

Somehow he manages to stumble to his suitcase and dig out a pair of jeans and a jacket without falling over. He takes his time getting them on because his muscles aren't really working right— they're all tight and shaky and his movements are uncoordinated as he fumbles with the laces on his sneakers. Eventually he gives up and lets them go untied.

The trip out to the living room isn't much easier, and his vision swims as he staggers forwards, nearly pitching to the side before he clumsily flings his arms out and grabs onto the couch for balance. It doesn't help, and a wave of cold sweat ripples across his flesh as the small tremors in his limbs intensify. A slap of fear strikes him just then, as he hunches there catching his breath, because he _really_ doesn't feel well and he doesn't know where Derek is— hell, Derek was probably out getting groceries or burying a bone or doing some other werewolf crap while he's doubled over the couch _dying,_ because that's sure what it feels like.

Stiles forces himself to breathe through his nose as he presses a hand to his queasy stomach. _Just get outside,_ he urges himself. _And do it without barfing all over Derek's ancestral rug,_ he adds as a grim afterthought as he eyes the expensive-looking stretch of patterned carpet at his feet.

He straightens up and manages to take a couple shaky steps forward, but that's as far as he gets before the room darkens around the edges and he realizes too late that _oh fuck,_ he's about to pass out, just as the world tilts and his legs buckle beneath him. The last thing he registers is his cheek slamming painfully against the cold hardwood floor, and then everything disappears.

When he comes to, there's warm, rough hands on his face and they're slapping his cheeks. There's some shouting too, but it's all warbled and far away and he can't really decipher it. Stiles blearily manages to crack open his eyelids, and if he had the strength he would flinch, because Derek's face is way too close to his own— and he looks positively _livid._ Slowly he realizes that Derek is the one who's yelling, and Stiles is glad that he can't really make sense of the words, because judging by the angle of his eyebrows it must have been some pretty hardcore cussing.

"—iles! Answer me!"

His hearing finally kicks in and catches up to the movement of Derek's lips, like someone turning up the volume on the TV. It's loud— _too_ loud, so he shuts his eyes against it, stomach rolling dangerously. 'I'm gonna be sick,' is what he means to say, but the words don't come out very well and slur into something more like ''m g'nnuh b'ick.' Consciousness is lose and slippery like a bar of soap in his hands, but he's lucid enough to register that he's absolutely drenched in cold sweat, which is totally gross. And great, this is just _great,_ because Derek is really going to kill him if he hurls on the rug. A voice barks at him to stay awake, and he tries, he really does, but he feels his eyes rolling back and his eyelids rebel doggedly against staying open. He's just so damn _tired_— and suddenly there are strong arms hooking underneath his armpits and hoisting him up, dragging him backwards until they release him and plop him down heavily on the couch.

"Fucking idiot," he hears, and then Derek must leave him for a moment, because it gets quiet. What seems like only a second later the hands are back on his cheeks again, forcefully tapping away like they're punching out morse code.

"—ake this. Come on."

The distinct, crisp click of a can of soda being opened slices into his awareness, followed by something cold and smooth being shoved into his hand. _Good luck,_ he thinks distantly, because his fingers are slack and useless and the drink nearly falls out of his grip before he hears an exasperated sigh, and then there's another set of fingers prying open his own, wrapping firmly over his knuckles so the can stays in place. A warm, calloused palm appears beneath his jawline and tips his head up, holding it in place as the soda is brought up to his mouth. Stiles blearily and somewhat bitterly wonders why the werewolf even cares— why he doesn't just leave him be and let him _starve,_ because what was the point of eating? Why should he bother trying to keep himself alive, when the two people he'd loved and cherished the most were now gone, ripped from his grasp without so much as a goodbye? They were never coming back, and knowing that left a pit in his stomach deeper and more painful than any skipped meal ever could.

But the sharp aluminum edge brushes against his bottom lip, and he feels Derek nudge him a little with his thumb, and Stiles is aware enough to know that he should probably take a few sips.

Derek stays by his side and supports him for a few minutes until he finishes half the can and is able to hold it on his own. Somewhere in the back of his mind it occurs to him how weird this is— how Derek's never been this _close_ to him before, let alone held him in place like some incompetent baby. It reminds him of last Halloween, when he discovered the alpha splayed out and unconscious on the floor of the hospital elevator, and how in that moment the invisible wall between them shattered; how easily and without second thought he'd sprinted over and grabbed the werewolf's stubbly cheeks, desperate in his attempts to wake him up and ensure that he wasn't _dead._

"Stay awake," Derek growls before spinning on his heels and marching off, leaving Stiles with warm imprints on the skin where his hands were.

Stiles doesn't answer, letting his head rest back against the couch as the effect of the drink fizzes beneath his fatigue and dampens his nausea. He doesn't catch the sharp, peruse looks Derek shoots him over his shoulder as he dozes in and out, vaguely aware of distant sounds coming from the kitchen; pots clanging and the click of stove burners flickering to high heat, and the muffled clattering of dishes. He figures he must check out again, because suddenly Derek is there a second later, shaking him by the shoulder and snapping his fingers in front of his face. Stiles blinks a pair of steely emerald eyes into focus, and takes the opportunity to observe the werewolf's features. His expression is hard and determined, lips pressed into a thin line, but there's something different in his eyes. It looks an awful lot like concern, but Stiles dismisses it as a trick of the light.

"Up. Get up," Derek commands, and wraps a strong grip around his elbow before pulling him to his feet. Stiles teeters unsteadily as the alpha walks (drags) him over to the kitchen table and practically throws him down in a chair, scooting him in with a firm shove. Stiles sways forward a bit with the movement, but manages not to face plant onto the table. It's a good thing, too, because there's a steaming plate of spaghetti in front of him, freshly cooked and saturated in a generous helping of marinara sauce dotted with tiny flecks of oregano. He blinks in surprise and glances to the stove, where an empty jar of Rao's Homemade tomato sauce rests beside a large boiling pot on the front burner. Then it clicks. That's what all the noise was; Derek was making him spaghetti.

Derek made him _spaghetti._

Oh.

"Eat," Derek commands, and Stiles looks up as the werewolf takes the seat opposite him, setting down his own plate of pasta. He's eying him sternly from underneath his eyebrows, so Stiles obliges, tentatively wrapping his fingers around the fork in front of him. He pokes the prongs into the pasta, watching a tendril of steam curl up past his face as he lifts a small roll of noodles to his mouth.

The first bite settles in his stomach uncomfortably, and he worries that he might not be able to keep any more down, but as soon as the second forkful hits his tongue his appetite rapidly awakens, and he nearly cries with the sudden surge of hunger that erupts from the empty pit in his belly. The instinct to eat quickly overpowers his grief, and he eagerly plunges his fork into the pasta with increasing enthusiasm, relishing in the way his tastebuds respond to the sharp tang of the tomatoes and the chewy texture of the noodles. He's aware of Derek pausing to observe him, but digs in shamelessly anyway, overjoyed to finally be able to feel and taste food again.

He's only a few bites in when he starts to feel full, but when he moves to put his fork down Derek stops chewing and glowers at him until he takes another bite. This continues until Stiles forces down the last of his spaghetti, leaving his plate clean and devoid of a single strand of pasta. He puffs out his cheeks and places a hand on his belly upon finishing, slouching back against his chair as his stomach protests against it's new volume. He's uncomfortably full, but pleased to note that the jitteriness in his limbs is gone, and his headache has subsided considerably. Now only a residual tiredness remains in his bones, but a sleepiness that is warm and muzzy— not the sore ache he's used to. He's just about to rise and return to his room when Derek speaks up, finally breaking the silence.

"Don't do that again," he states quietly, as if Stiles fainted on purpose. The werewolf keeps his gaze down as he twirls a final bundle of noodles around his fork. "No more protein bars. No more skipping meals. You will sit down and eat what I serve you from now on."

Stiles observes him wearily, without any words on hand to respond with, but struck with the sudden urge to laugh. He thinks it's rather forward, the way the werewolf phrased it. Grunted it out, like a part of him preferred the words to be left unsaid, but another part of him released them anyway, without so much as a 'please.' Stiles decides not to hold it against him, because 'please' wasn't exactly Derek's favorite word.

He nods, standing up on much stronger legs as he stifles a yawn and places his plate in the sink. Briefly he contemplates staying to wash it, but the call of sleep nags at him, weighing heavily on his shoulders. He decides to leave it for Derek, because he knows that Derek will wash it for him, just this once. Before rounding the corner to the hallway, Stiles pauses and looks back, catching the werewolf's eyes.

"Thank you," he says quietly. It was barely above a whisper, but he knows Derek caught it. Werewolf hearing, and all. Then he breaks away and returns to his room.

He goes to bed feeling uncomfortably bloated, but the best he's felt all year.

* * *

><p>You lovely, lovely people. Thank you for waiting and for all the lovely reviews! I spent many hours laboring over whether or not to switch tenses with the kitchen scene, so please let me know if it doesn't flow right or needs adjustment. Find more <strong>artwork<strong> on AO3 or on my Tumblr at **stiles-and-the-sourwolf**. More chapters are on the way :) Love, The Typewriter Girl.


	4. Chapter 4

The day Derek came home and found Stiles passed out on the floor was a day he never wanted to repeat.

He'd known something was off upon approaching the door, keys in hand as he trotted up the porch steps. Lifelong experience as a werewolf had taught him that a sudden chill up his spine usually indicated that something was amiss, but when he burst in and found Stiles crumpled face-down in the middle of the room, he couldn't say it was much of a surprise. The stubborn idiot hadn't been eating half of what he should've been, and apparently it had finally caught up with him; but upon catching sight of the human's lifeless form, dread like no other had seized Derek anyway, because for a split second he thought that Stiles might have done something else—

Something _worse._

The paper bag of groceries in his arms hit the floor with a crumpled 'smack,' spilling out oranges and denting a carton of milk that spurted across the hardwood as he bolted forward and dropped to a crouch, quickly grabbing the teen's shoulders to roll him onto his back. Stiles flopped over like a wet rag doll, and Derek flinched at the way his limbs lolled limply with the movement. He was passed out cold, unresponsive and absolutely drenched in clammy sweat; dark tousles of hair clung to his damp forehead like strands of washed-up seaweed strewn across an ocean shore, which made his drained complexion pop out like bleached alabaster. He was pale—_ too_ pale, even for Stiles, and his heartbeat was weak and fluttery, like it was trying desperately to escape his ribcage but lacked the strength or knowhow to break through. There was also a small bruise on his left cheekbone, presumably from where his face must have slammed into the floorboards.

A string of curses slipped through his teeth in vicious, tight-lipped mutters as he shook Stiles by the shoulders and slapped his cheeks in an effort to rouse him, perhaps a little harder than what was necessary because he was so damn _angry_— angry at Stiles for not caring enough to eat anything more than a stupid protein bar, but even angrier at himself for not stepping in sooner. He'd seen the way Stiles shied away from the cupboards, eyeing meals as if the food was laced with arsenic and crafting excuses to avoid eating as if it were his career; meanwhile the leftovers Derek put aside for him had stacked up in the fridge, untouched. He'd decided not to push and let the teen have his space, hoping that sooner or later he would snap out of it on his own.

And now the kid was sprawled out on the floor in hypoglycemic shock, all because his new coward of a housemate didn't try hard enough to make him sit down and eat a fucking meal.

Finally Stiles came around, if just barely. Derek managed to drag him up onto the couch, noting with a frown how light he was. The harsh curve of his ribs stuck out from beneath his jacket as he plopped him down against the cushions, making his gaze stray instinctually to the chiseled edges of the teen's cheekbones. He'd mentally kicked himself all the way to the kitchen and back, sighing in vexation when getting the can of soda down Stiles's throat proved to be no easy task. The human's head lolled listlessly to the side, fingers slack and useless around the drink, and Derek was convinced that somehow in his half-lucid state the kid was testing him; challenging him to see how far he'd overstep the invisible wall between them to get the liquid past his lips.

But he didn't even need to lift a toe, because the barrier had shattered back at the front door. Derek didn't hesitate to take Stiles's cold hand in his own, cupping a palm beneath his face to hold him upright. He reeked of exhaustion and sick and sweat, but then the acrid scent of grief hit the air like a freight train, overpowering them all as the can was brought up to his mouth. Tiny, distressed crinkles spilled out across Stiles's brow as he weakly clamped his lips together against the sharp edge of the aluminum, and something small and horrified snapped in Derek's chest, because he knew what the small gesture meant:

Stiles was starving himself, and he knew it.

It was on _purpose._

And a dark, raging, storming anguish had flared up with the realization, something so wild and desperate and painful that Derek drew blood biting down on his cheek to suppress the urge to slap him again, because Stiles wasn't allowed to do this— Stiles couldn't just _give up_ and throw away every brilliant, courageous, _stupid_ move he had made to save the pack over the past couple years, not after all the strokes of luck where his human ass narrowly scrambled out of death's way at the last possible second. The kid was an enigma; a jumpy pile of skinny, breakable limbs that couldn't resist sticking his head into danger anyway, yet always reserved enough sass to throw around a couple of dog jokes no matter how dire the situation. But to see him now, devoid of that humor and wretchedly hopeless... It was like all the life had left him, leaving him hollow, dead-eyed and quiet, which was something Stiles was never supposed to be.

It terrified Derek.

And that terror unravelled a small, quiet seed of sadness at the very depth of his core, because looking at Stiles now as he lay gaunt and neck-high in sorrow was like facing a mirror; a mirage of himself from nearly six years ago, when he was a sixteen-year-old shattered by the loss of his family.

It was eerie how similar he'd been after the fire, sleeping away the pain and refusing to take showers, robbed of all drive to eat or take care of himself. For months the grief ate away at him, ripping into his flesh like a pair of razor-sharp canines that never ceased feasting, not even in slumber, when his dreams soured into nightmares. The only difference was that back then he had been forced to live with Peter, who couldn't have cared less about his miserable existence. The man had disregarded him entirely, but _that_ invisible wall had been composed of resentment, which his uncle reinforced with every eye-roll and merciless sneer whenever Derek broke down and cried, claiming that werewolves were _'not bred to be soft.'_ In the end, it was the thought of his mother that had saved him, because he knew that it would break Thalia Hale's heart if he turned his back on life.

So Derek stayed there, shoving aside his initial lividity to hold Stiles upright as he slowly took sips of Seven-Up, because he wasn't about to let the kid destroy himself like he had nearly done all those years ago. His hands had come away sticky with cooled sweat when Stiles was conscious enough to drink on his own, but he didn't flinch as he wiped his palms on his jeans because he knew how much it sucked to be drenched in your own feverish perspiration.

From the kitchen his neck seemed to swivel around on its own accord as he prepared the spaghetti, he guessed to make sure the kid hadn't stopped breathing or anything. Stiles didn't seem to be listening to his order of 'stay awake' very well, head lolling back against the couch with eyes closed and his mouth hanging open like a gutted fish. The can of soda balanced precariously on his lap, wobbling slightly in his loose grip with every breath. It wasn't long before the questions began creeping into his mind— how long had Stiles been lying there unconscious? How long _would_ he have lied there if he hadn't come home sooner? How long before…

But Derek had quickly shoved the thought away, focusing instead on the small hint of color that had returned to Stiles's cheeks as he strained the pasta over the sink.

If the fire had taught him one thing, it was that throwing around 'what-if's' never did any good.

Derek officially made the decision when they sat down at the table, after seeing the way Stiles plunged into his meal. Six years ago he didn't have anyone to drag him out of bed by the ankle to get him to bathe, or anyone to wash his sheets for him while he wallowed in his grief, and when he passed out himself after weeks of skipped meals, he had to stagger to his own two feet and choke down a handful of saltines, because no one had been there to cook spaghetti for him.

But he was going to be there for Stiles.

That's why subconsciously or not, Stiles wasn't allowed to give up on himself.

Derek wouldn't let him.

* * *

><p>The lamp by his side buzzed dimly as he sat at the dining table by the front window, thumbing through one of his mother's old cookbooks he'd dug out from the top cabinet.<p>

It was dusty and yellowed, discolored in places with what looked like oil stains from long ago, but it had been her favorite. He had spent the last fifteen minutes scouring for meatless recipes that would be enticing enough to encourage Stiles to eat, because after a week's worth of grilled cheese and pasta he was fresh out of ideas. After seeing the way Stiles eyed the steak that day, he'd been careful to avoid cooking up beef or any similar meats that could trigger him; he'd looked like a spooked horse that night, and Derek had a feeling that the reflected terror in his eyes ignited from seeing his father's flesh in the flank on the stove.

But now, Stiles was…

Better.

Derek noticed the change a little bit more every time the teen quietly padded out of his bedroom to join him for meals, which he did regularly now. He refused breakfast, insisting that his appetite wasn't really there in the mornings, but for lunch and dinner he would shuffle out and shyly take a seat at the table, eyes downcast and plaintive as he waited patiently for Derek to set a plate of food in front of him. It was then, when Derek would seize the opportunity to slyly observe his pallor, making mental notes on any returned saturation to his complexion, the softening contour of his too-sharp cheekbones, or the slightest sign of a returned spark in his eyes.

They ate in silence for the most part, aside from Stiles's occasional, 'this is pretty good' and mumbled, 'thanks for the food.' Sometimes Derek would find the courage to pose a tentative, 'how are you?' To which the teen would always glance up curiously at him, as if he thought he'd misheard the question. The answer was always a halfhearted grunt, but last night Stiles had replied with a quiet, "okay."

The extra meals appeared to be regulating his sleeping patterns as well, for the dark bruises beneath his eyes had been steadily receding. Derek also knew because he had been checking up on him at least once a day, quietly pausing by his bedroom door on the way to the garage or laundry room to tune into his heartbeat. Slow and steady when he was asleep, or accompanied by the soft clicks of his laptop keyboard when he was awake. When he'd first arrived Derek seldom heard the latter, but now they were just about even.

Derek licked his thumb and peeled off a post-it note, sticking it to the top of a page with an eggplant parmesan recipe. Tonight he had a pan of garlic potatoes in the oven, which were due to be taken out any minute. With a stretch he snapped the cookbook closed and tucked it on top of the fridge, then walked down the hall and knocked on Stiles's door, stating "dinner" as his knuckles rapped against the wood.

After a few minutes of the usual silence at the table, he decides to take a risk.

"Scott's been asking about you," he states cautiously, poking a fork into a cheesy potato wedge. "He says you aren't answering his texts."

Stiles stiffens, a flicker of fear crossing his features. He lets out a tepid grunt.

"Mm."

"I'm meeting with him and Isaac Monday," he continues carefully, avoiding the teen's eyes as he nonchalantly shovels the spuds into his mouth. "You should come."

He watches as Stiles squirms a bit in his seat and slowly chews a mouthful of potato, eyes downcast.

"I'll think about it."

Derek nods, returning to his meal. He can tell by the kid's tone that he has no intention of going, which was a shame. It would probably do Stiles good to see Scott; to regain a sense of normalcy and see that his dad's death wouldn't undermine their friendship, because he suspected that was the root of the human's hesitancy. Stiles undoubtedly missed Scott just as much as Scott missed him; the younger alpha had been bugging him relentlessly the past few weeks with text messages and even a couple phone calls, which spoke volumes for his concern because Scott had never dared dialing his number before. Each time the teen would bombard him with questions on how Stiles was doing, and he would always fail to drum up a sufficient answer.

"Why do you put so much effort into your kitchen?"

Derek blinks up in surprise, pausing mid-chew. He must look confused, because Stiles gestures his fork in the direction of pantry shelves.

"The cabinets," Stiles provides plainly, glancing over at them. "They're new. Looks like you had the counters reinstalled, too, and the wallpaper. But you left it alone throughout the rest of the house. Also, your cookware is probably more expensive than my jeep and we're eating roasted garlic potatoes, which isn't exactly instant ramen… So why all the effort?"

Derek stares at him, silently stunned. The kid was observant, he'd give him that. If anyone else had asked he probably would have retaliated the question with a death-glare and a snarled warning, but that was the most Stiles had uttered in one sitting since his arrival... So he takes his time chewing, thoughtfully constructing his answer.

"My mother used to cook a lot," He starts quietly, and some invisible force holds his gaze down and away from the teen as he speaks. "Mealtimes were… Something we did, as a family. I wanted to continue that as best I could."

A pause. He can feel Stiles studying him, perhaps surprised with his open answer. Then he hears the teen scrape his fork across his plate, scooping up the last of his potatoes.

"Mm… My mom used t'make macaroni and cheese," Stiles murmurs, mouth half full. "Put little bits 'f sausage in it. Stuff was like heaven in a pan."

Derek eyes him cautiously, unsure of how to respond. He settles for a short nod and wipes a napkin across his mouth, folding it on his plate before scooting out his chair.

"You finished?"

"Yeah. Thanks."

He stands up and clears the dishes, sticking them in the washer before heading to the living room. There he plops down on the couch, but looks up in surprise as Stiles follows, quietly sauntering over to join him instead of retreating to his room. For a moment he internally freezes, unsure of what to do as Stiles takes a seat a couple of cushions over, giving plenty of space between them. The kid had been avoiding him like the plague since his arrival, but years of practice enable Derek to smother his bemusement beneath a vacant mask as he reaches for the remote, switching on the TV as if the two of them sitting on the same piece of furniture wasn't new or strange or awkward at all.

The silence is palpable as he absently flicks through the channels, hyper-aware of the fact that Stiles was only a few feet away from him. He had been living alone for years, just him and his thoughts to fill the empty house and the passage of time, and apparently that solitude had been so deeply ingrained within his routine that actually having company by his side settled awkwardly on his shoulders like a foreign ailment. His unease manifests in the rapid-fire rate in which he passes by the stations, making the screen flash with quick snippets of trashy reality shows and wrestling matches, spanish soap operas, a steamy movie make-out scene, a game of golf— all far too awkward to be watching with—

"Dude, you're worse than Scott," Stiles mumbles airily beside him, stifling a yawn. "Pick something."

Derek shoots him a scowl, giving the clicker a final push before setting it down in his lap. The channel lands on an old Jackie Chan film. It's one of the earlier ones, in the middle of a cheesy fight scene set to an eighties' soundtrack from hell. The choreography is atrocious, comprised of ridiculous twirls and unrealistic kicks and jabs that would do little more than knock the hero off balance.

"Hah... You could punch better than that," Stiles jests tiredly, absently flicking his hand towards the television. His lip twitches a little with the comment, as if it intended to quirk into a smile but exhausted itself halfway there and fell flat. Derek side-eyes the action but doesn't say anything, swinging his view back to the screen.

No other words are exchanged after that, enabling the corny sound effects to fill the silence as the sun disappears completely behind the horizon, blanketing the room in darkness. As the night stretches on he notices the teen slowly sinking back against the cushions and jerk with a couple of false starts, but it isn't until the film finally ends and the credits start rolling that he glances over and sees that Stiles has actually fallen asleep, head slung heavily over the side of the couch with his cheek smooshed into the crook of his arm.

Great.

Initially Derek grits his teeth in mild annoyance; he hadn't expected this. He tries reaching out to shake his shoulder, but his fingers halt a few inches short of Stiles's skin, unable to make contact. Instead his eyes trail somewhat pensively over the curled figure, snagging on the human's slack face. It was strange to see his features so placid and ironed out, devoid of the tense lines that had found permanent reside on his forehead; he actually looked at peace for once, free from the desolation of his conscious world.

Derek sighed heavily, rubbing a hand over his face as if he were trying to wipe away an invisible layer of preemptive skin. There was no way he was carrying the kid's skinny ass to bed— but Stiles looks uncomfortable at best, folded awkwardly against the leather with his neck scrunched in the crevice of his elbow. His other arm hangs listlessly off the edge of the seat cushion, brushing against his tucked-up knees, and Derek feels sore just looking at him. He casts his gaze upwards, at war with the celling.

He'd leave him on the couch, but he at least owed the guy a pillow.

Pitch black envelops the room as he quietly pushes open the door, but his eyes adjust immediately. The space smelled of Stiles; clean sweat, laundry detergent, and the acrid tang of grief, all laced with slight undertones of mint shampoo. A few socks and pajama bottoms were strewn carelessly about the floor, but his classic red hoodie had been folded gently over his desk chair, forever his prized article of clothing. Aside from that and the rumpled comforter, the room was just as clean and barren as it had been the day before he arrived, almost as if no one had moved in at all. A quick glance to the side confirms the suitcase still tucked away in the corner, yet to be unpacked.

He shoves the last observation aside as he approaches the bed and grabs the nearest pillow, but halts as the lowlight glints off of something in it's place. He swivels back around, gaze narrowing on the small object by the headboard, and feels his features sag with the weight of what he spies on the sheets.

It was the Sheriff's badge. Dented and nicked from years of duty, dull and worn down from fingers that had seldom ceased caressing the brass since the new year.

And Stiles had been sleeping with it under his pillow.

Derek glances at the downy cushion in his hands, suddenly compelled with the urge to put it back. If he took it to the couch, Stiles would know that he had seen the badge, and for some reason that didn't seem right. He felt like he had invaded a sacred secret of his; something that he imagined the human would probably prefer to keep private.

So he sets the pillow back down over the medal, sealing it away until Stiles chose to uncover it. Then he grabs the pillow on the right side of the mattress and heads back to the living room, shutting the door behind him with a soft 'snick.'

Stiles rouses slightly as Derek gently slips a palm beneath his head and tips it forward, hastily tucking the cushion in from behind so he can retract his hand and minimize the amount of time his fingers spend in the human's hair. An unintelligible mumble escapes Stiles's lips on a subdued exhale as he falls back and sinks into the plush casing, eyelids fluttering briefly before sleep reclaims them and drags him back under. The thin cotton of his t-shirt glows softly beneath the cool light of the window and illuminates the small goosebumps peppering his freckled arms, and as an afterthought Derek snatches the wool blanket draped over the back of the armchair and drops it onto him before trudging upstairs to bed, the imprint of the Sheriff's star still engraved in his mind's eye.

* * *

><p>The next morning Stiles is still asleep on the couch when he comes out to make breakfast.<p>

Derek observes him amusedly throughout the day as he passes by the living room, each time huffing out a snort at the human's increasingly ridiculous positions. At nine he's curled up tight in a fetal position, the top of his spidery hair barely peeking out from underneath the wool blanket, but at ten he's spread out on his stomach with arms mimicking the folded wings of a chicken. An hour later his body is draped over the cushions like a swooned maiden, long limbs stretched out and tangled in the grey quilt, half of which had been kicked to the floor. His head is tipped back and buried in his pillow, cheek stained by the thin trail of drool leaking from the corner of his wide-open mouth. Derek's never seen anything dumber.

He's assembling a sandwich in the kitchen when Stiles finally wakes at noon and rolls over onto his back, slinging a floppy arm across his eyes with a low groan. Derek watches as the sleep drains away from him in tiny increments, replaced immediately with the return of discontent lines across his brow. It takes a few moments for the teen to realize where he is upon blearily blinking the world into focus, and when it hits him he jerks upright, bumping the crown of his head against the side of the couch in the process.

"About time," Derek mutters from the counter, voice thick with drawl as he piles slices of pastrami on a cibatta bun. Stiles's head snaps in his direction so fast that Derek hears his neck crack, and his eyes stretch wide as they dart wildly from the TV, the blanket on his lap, back to Derek, finally skittering to a halt on the pillow squished beneath his elbow. A bubblegum hue bites his cheeks as he connects all the dots.

"What—" Stiles croaks, licking his lips nervously. He doesn't seem to know what he should address first, or address at all. "Is this… Is this my pillow?"

"Yes."

"Oh…" Stiles swallows, hands curling into the case. "Did youuu…?" His eye twitches as he trails off and peers at him, too perturbed to finish the question and give anything away. Derek meets his gaze, quirking his brow like he has no clue where the kid is going, and doesn't care what the destination is.

"Did _I…?"_ He parrots for emphasis, pushing his eyebrow up further until Stiles presses his lips together and looks away, satisfied that he didn't see the badge.

"Nevermind," he mutters. He swings his legs off of the couch and throws him another confused frown as he bends down to pick up the blanket, but doesn't say anything as he folds it up and places it back over the armchair. Just as he spins on his heels to meander back to his room, there's a knock at the front door— three short raps against the soiled wood.

"Wow, solicitors must be desperate if they're willing to come all the way out here to try _this_ place," Stiles drones, but Derek speaks up before he can walk down the hall.

"Get it," he commands idly, adjusting the swiss atop his sandwich. "It's for you."

Stiles stops mid-stride, swinging his head back around with a slightly terrified look on his face, as if he's assumed Derek called the child protective services on him and that the hand behind the knock belongs to a man in a suit who's come to take him away and hand him off to a couple of foster parents.

"W-what?" He stammers, head jerking anxiously between the Derek and the front entrance. "Who—"

"Answer the door, Stiles."

It takes the teen another moment of perturbed staring before his bare feet unstick their stance on the hardwood and cautiously tip-toe over to the door. Derek keeps his gaze glued to his sandwich, bracing himself as he hears Stiles unhinge the lock and wrap his fingers around the handle, slowly pulling it open. The splintered wood parts from the frame with a low groan; the same sound effect used for suspense in horror films, only this time it was twice as scary.

"Stiles…"

Scott's greeting is warm and breathless, kindled from weeks of withdrawal from his best friend. His smile is audible, but there's also the slight edge of hesitancy in his voice, betraying his uncertainty for what the future holds for their friendship, and whether or not Stiles will accept his desire to be there for him. A thread of sadness weaves the two together, undoubtedly spun upon catching sight of the way the grief weighed heavily on his brother's shoulders, breaking his posture and snuffing out the spark he feared wouldn't be present anymore.

"Scott…" Stiles states, and disbelief renders the name so soft that his voice cracks on it. His heartbeat skyrockets, rabbiting along at a pace that carries the terror in his chest up past his lips and molds it into a clipped, "What are you doing here?"

Derek feels the slap of the words from his spot in kitchen. There's a stiff pause.

"W-what… What do you mean?" Scott stammers, tone immediately deflating as if flattened by a truck. "Derek texted me saying you wanted me to come over today."

More silence— this time of a variety so intense it shatters time, and it takes everything he has not to glance up, because he knows the pair of them are staring at him now. He hears the wet 'pop' of Stiles's mouth as it falls open into that stupid, toothless gape it does when he's taken aback, and knows that Scott is studying him, putting it all together. He hears Stiles lick his lips, chew his bottom lip as he figures out what to say, heartbeat stuttering like it's going to give out, and for a moment Derek thinks that he's about to tell Scott to go home— but then there's a rustle of fabric, the squeak of shoes against the floor, and another startled blip in the teen's pulse as Scott steps forward and pulls him into a hug.

"Well it doesn't matter," Scott says quickly, voice thick and muffled behind the cotton of his friend's shirt. "I'm here and I brought red vines. Star Wars is on at eight... Not sure what episode it is, but I figured you would know."

The air stills. Not a single move is made, nor a single exhale expelled. Scott is holding onto Stiles like he's terrified the human will run away if he lets go, and Stiles is stiff and rigid in his arms like he wants nothing more than to do just that—

But then there's a shift.

The sound of breath snagging in a tight throat.

A hiccup.

And that's when Derek looks up, watching as Stiles tries and fails to repress the barrage of unspoken emotions that have built up over the past three weeks. They break free in a single, deep, desperate sob that bursts forth with such startling ferocity that his legs buckle beneath the strain of it, but Scott only latches on tighter and falls with him, dropping the pack of red vines as their knees hit the floor. Stiles clings to him like an octopus, hands scrabbling madly at the back of his friend's hoodie while ugly, shuddering gasps ransack his frame, and Scott's own eyes well up and glisten with tears as he squeezes back. They're both caught off guard when breathless, hysterical laughter suddenly bubbles from Stiles's throat and merges with his bawling, as if his friend's words obliterated his worst fears and left him drunk with relief. It's unexpected, infectious, and the first kind of laughter to grace his lips since last year, and Scott joins in too as they kneel there swaying, half-crying, half-laughing, desperately drinking in their starved embrace.

Derek turns away. He tells himself the reason is to give them a moment of privacy, but really it's because it hurts too much to watch. The pair were inseparable, joined by a level of mutual endearment so unbreakable that it could easily be interpreted for something romantic; they expressed their affection so effortlessly, like it was second nature to playfully punch the other's shoulder or wrap their arms around one another— and Derek looked somewhat bitterly upon it, because deep down he wished it could come just as easily to him.

After what seems like an eternity they finally break apart and untangle their limbs from one another, but their fingers are reluctant to withdraw from each other's shirts. There's a few residual sniffles and a couple embarrassed throat-clears. A clap on the back.

"Come on," Scott says quietly. His eyes flicker to Derek over Stiles's shoulder. "Show me your room?"

Stiles wipes his nose and nods, and Derek knows it's because they need to go somewhere without him, where his presence can't suck the intimacy from the atmosphere.

Scott keeps an arm firmly wrapped around his brother's shoulders as they straighten up and stumble towards the bedroom, passing him by the counter on the way. The younger alpha takes the chance to peer curiously at him, but also throws in a tiny, appreciative nod. Stiles eyes him longer and more unabashedly, expression wide open and perplexed as if Derek is a puzzle he can't really figure out. It makes Derek look away, and he takes a large bite out of his sandwich to convey how he couldn't care less.

The boys spend the day together in Stiles's room, watching movies on his laptop and mulling through comic books. It's quiet for the most part, but throughout the afternoon Derek picks up a few low murmurs of dialogue, what seems like casual commentary on whatever film they're watching. Once or twice he briefly hears Stiles crying quietly, but it's okay because Scott is there crying with him. Later on they come out to watch Star Wars when he's in the garage working on the Camaro. He knows when they spot the two burritos he left out for them on the counter, because Scott nearly busts a vocal chord expressing his shock.

_"Whoa, he _cooks?"

_"Yeah, I know,"_ Stiles responds passively. _"This is nothing, you should see him on a day he actually has groceries to work with. He's like Rachel Ray, minus the cheery smile."_

Derek frowns in response from his crouched stance in front of the hood, but he's never been so relieved to be the butt of a joke. He imagines the pair take the burritos to the couch, because a minute later the brassy score from the movie fills the air with mild vibrations. Derek doesn't know what episode it is either, but he hears snippets of Stiles mumbling small lines of explanation. Another minute passes before Scott pipes up again.

_"Dude, how come these don't have any meat in them?"_

A pause.

_"I… He must not have any."_

_"Huh. I didn't think Derek would ever let a day go by where he doesn't have some kind of beef on hand."_

_._

They almost make it through the whole movie before Stiles starts yawning and Scott takes the hint, declaring that he has to study for a math test tomorrow. Derek is upstairs in his room when he hears them rise from the couch and click off the TV, and he quietly emerges to stand at the edge of the banister to watch them say goodbye at the front door.

"I love you, man. Call me if you need anything."

"Thanks, I will. Bye, Scott."

They clap out another hug and Scott departs. Stiles shuts the door after him, after which he dazedly spins around and lets his back flop heavily against the wood, running a hand through his hair. His fingers tug absently at his bangs as he blows out a long exhale, one that turns into a bewildered chuckle of sorts. He looks up and notices him then, meeting his gaze without a single ounce of the usual apprehension. Derek stares back, noting how much brighter his eyes look without it. Then Stiles flicks a hand up to his forehead in the gesture of a half-hearted salute, and the corner of his lip tugs up in the closest stretch yet to a smirk.

"Night, Derek."

Derek offers a short nod in reply, but this time he doesn't avert his eyes and turn away. Instead he lingers to watch the human tread down the hall and disappear into to his room, thinking about how it was the first time Stiles had addressed him by his first name since moving in.

* * *

><p>As always, your reviews are lovely! Thank you so much! :) new chapters coming soon. Love, The Typewriter Girl.<p> 


	5. Chapter 5

Stiles awakens to the loud 'bang' of his bedroom door bursting open, followed by the 'thunk' of his head hitting the headboard when he jerks up in alarm.

"Wha— oh my god, do you ever _knock!?"_

Sleep renders his outburst hoarse and crackly as he flails in his sheets, floundering to cover up his batman pajama bottoms while Derek barges into the room, looking way too fresh and alert for the ungodly hour of the morning. The werewolf ignores his disgruntled squawk, purposefully striding over to the window and yanking the cord to open the blinds, which releases a flood of harsh sunlight upon his bed that paints the inside of his scrunched eyelids a burning orange.

"Nope. Get up."

Derek's tone is impassive as ever, if not a bit amused. Smug, maybe— but whatever it is Stiles doesn't have the mind to be curious because his eyes itch with sleepy crusties and Derek Hale is suddenly in his room uninvited for the second time in a month, which is annoying at best and frankly a little creepy.

"What the hell, dude, it's the crack of dawn!" He moans indignantly, rolling over to shove his face into his pillow. The cotton presses cool and soft against his sleep-flushed face, but it does nothing to relieve the sour taste of being yanked from unconscious bliss by an overgrown, privacy-invading furball.

"It's nine-thrity," Derek states, somewhat condescendingly from somewhere on his left.

"My point exactly," Stiles grumbles, voice muffled and irritated against his pillowcase. "What the fuck do you _want?"_

He swivels his neck around and cracks open an eyelid to scope out what Derek is doing, but immediately regrets it when he's smacked with a face-full of red hoodie, chucked in his direction from the desk.

"Hey—!"

"Come on, up. You're going outside today."

Well. That was new.

Surprise briefly captures his tongue, but he quickly recovers and scrambles up on his elbows, vehemently ripping the jacket from his hair so he can gawk wide-eyed and cynical at the werewolf, who was bending down to pick up his converse.

"Um, no? I'm perfectly content here, thanks. Bye."

With a flourish he grabs a fistful of his comforter and yanks it over his head as he dives back into his pillow, huffing out an irritated sigh. He thinks he does a good job of drenching his flat riposte with 'fuck off,' but apparently Derek isn't ruffled in the slightest, because next thing he knows the shoes are dropped on his head, clunking against his scull on the same spot the headboard had assaulted him. The sneakers bounce off the mattress and tumble to the carpet as he whips over onto his back, cussing with another yipe of protest.

"Dammit, go away!"

"No. Get dressed, you're getting out of the house," Derek states, infuriatingly nonchalant in tone and expression as he bends down to pick up an empty gatorade bottle by the foot of the bed. He casually tosses it into the wastebasket across the room, winning a shot in any basketball game. Stiles seethes, feeling his mouth contort into an ugly pucker.

"Fuck, Derek, no I'm not! You can't just—!"

But he breaks off mid-breath, halted by the deadpan expression Derek is pinning him with. His eyes skim over the alpha's folded arms and land on his quirked brow, and the rest of his unspoken retort whooshes out his nostrils in a sigh of defeat, because yes, Derek can. If Derek can get him to shower, eat, and see his best friend, then it probably wouldn't hurt to humor him and get out of bed for a few hours, although he's secretly convinced the guy is using his alpha persuasion powers to do it. He lets his muscles go limp and flops backwards onto the mattress, slinging an arm over his crummy eyes in surrender.

"Fine…" He groans softly. "Where exactly am I going?"

The werewolf pauses by the door to swivel his head around, and Stiles swears he catches a twitch of a smirk.

"We're going grocery shopping."

* * *

><p>He drags his limbs out to the kitchen fifteen minutes later, after managing to brush his teeth and pull on a pair of khakis. Derek is waiting for him at the counter, perched on the edge of a barstool with his legs folded up on the rungs. A pair of dark denims hug his calves, tucked into a pair of beat-up black doc martens. Stiles's eyes trail up to the werewolf's soft navy henley, and he frowns a little because his own clothes feel like sandpaper after a month's worth of sweatpants, rumpled from imprisonment in his suitcase. He wiggles his toes in his converse, irked by how cold and stiff the soles feel against his feet. Derek swings his legs off the chair and fishes out a ring of keys from his pocket, twirling them around his finger before snatching them in his palm. He grabs two silver thermoses from the counter, and shoves one of them into Stiles's hands.<p>

"What's—"

"Coffee."

"Oh, no, it's okay—"

"Take it. You'll want it."

Stiles bites his lip and wraps his hands around the stainless steel, which radiates a pleasant warmth against his icy fingers. A small curl of steam drifts up from the opening and tickles his nose with the aroma of deep french roast, persuading him to take a small sip as he follows Derek to the door. It's sweet and earthy and even better than it smells.

'Really fucking cold' is what springs to mind when they step outside. The sun glows faintly behind an overcast sky, but it's not fooling anybody. February seldom touches the county without leaving a trail of bitter frost upon every surface, and this morning a crisp chill breaches the air like a wintery plague, saturating the porch and nearby trees in a cold dusting of dew. Stiles blinks rapidly against the harsh grey light, lungs seizing with the influx of fresh air. It's overwhelming compared to the stuffy warmth and familiar colors of his bedroom, but underwhelming because 'outside' isn't as bright as he remembers.

He shivers and pulls his hood up with a yank, clutching the thermos close to his chest as they walk out to the Camaro. The car gleams with a beautiful black shine, glittering like polished onyx in the frostbitten air. It makes him think of his jeep; dull and chipped and worse for wear, but beautiful just the same. The passenger seat squeaks stiffly beneath his weight as Derek ducks behind the wheel, igniting the engine with a twist of his keys. It rumbles to life with a sound startlingly similar to an alpha roar, and Stiles wonders if that's part of why Derek likes the car so much. The radio flicks on with the motor, vibrating the speakers with the soft harmonies and syncopated drums of a melodic rock song; according to the screen beneath the dashboard, apparently it's "Waiting on Words" by the Black Keys, track eight out of eleven.

Stiles takes another sip of coffee, teeth chattering a little as they bite the lip of the canister. Derek switches on the heater. Stiles steals a glance at him, and the werewolf glances back, something a little different about his features, more relaxed maybe. There's a peculiar casualty in the brief exchange— far from the tense, guarded filters that plagued their gazes a few weeks ago. He doesn't know what to think of it, so he turns away and shrinks back further into his hoodie, opting to sulk a bit as he stares out the window. It doesn't take long for the lull of the engine to coax his grainy eyes closed, sanding down the fatigued throbbing in his temples as he mulls over his sour thoughts.

If they were playing the honesty game, this was stupid. He longed for his bed, safe and warm and sheltered from the sights and sounds of the real world— but no, instead he's awake and sitting on a sore ass next to the king of mope himself, because the guy insisted that it was more important to go grocery shopping. He could see where Derek was coming from if he let himself dwell on it long enough, but stubbornness deemed intention irrelevant. Plain and simple, he didn't want to be out, certainly not to go push some lame cart around at Lucky's with the biggest grump in Beacon Hills.

Thus, he's a bit thrown off when the tires squeak to a halt next to a small park fifteen minutes later.

He rubs his eyes and sits up, squinting as he peers through the window. They're in a tiny car lot, shaded by a stretch of tall trees that lead to a patch of grassy field. A strip of white booths line up along the green, covered in tarp and strung together by small lines of fishing wire, from which tiny, pastel paper lanterns wobble in the breeze. The sound of live folk music filters in through the car windows, mixing with the distant chatter of people walking idly from tent to tent, bustling with bags of groceries slung over their shoulders. The scene looks out of place against the cold chrome sky; vibrant, energetic, and much too cheerful for Beacon Hills.

"Okay, uh… This isn't Lucky's," he deducts intelligently, frowning as his breath fogs up the glass.

"No," Derek replies, something akin to amusement in his tone. He pulls the keys out of the ignition. "It's the farmer's market. First and third Saturday of every month."

Stiles chews on the words, subconsciously drumming his fingertips against the thermos in his lap. This was unexpected. In fact it was probably the weirdest thing to happen thus far, which says a lot considering all the weird things Derek had done since his arrival, like cooking and watching TV and arranging for Scott to come over under his nose— but he never would have guessed that a hippy-dippy farmer's market would make the list. He swivels his head around with a handful of questions dancing on his tongue, but Derek was already stepping outside. Stiles hobbles after him, sneakers crunching over the gravel beneath his feet.

He sticks close to Derek's heels as they near the white booths, passing several individuals along the way. People stop and stare at them, some exchanging hushed whispers as their gazes sweep up and down their figures, most of the women's lingering on Derek. Stiles doesn't blame them; he realizes they must look quite the pair— an awkward, raggedy teenager (he can't even remember the last time he combed his hair) shuffling beside a ruggedly handsome, intimidating older guy with a scowl indicative of a hardened criminal. They're too different to be siblings, too rigid in body language to be friends. Derek doesn't seem to notice the way some mothers clutch their children and pull them away as they walk by. Either he doesn't notice, or he's used to ignoring it.

The density of the crowd increases as they step onto the grass, and Stiles reels as he takes in the vibrant visage and sound of everything up close. Long tables of colorful fruits and vegetables— rainbow carrots, strawberries, winter squash, leafy greens, ripe purple cherries and every kind of fresh produce imaginable gleam like candied gems beneath the tarps, on display to be picked over by choosy fingers. Stacks of jams and jellies with checkered lids make a pyramid beside loaves of crusted sourdough, from which a burly man's serrated knife slices sample-size chunks. His ears track the source of the music to a pretty woman in a long skirt, who brandishes a dazzling smile as she tickles a fiddle for a small crowd of onlookers, two bearded men strumming guitar at her side. Large white buckets of wildflowers in every color of the spectrum line the isle like soldiers; massive golden sunflowers and tiny peppered bluebells with fuzzy mint-green leaves, violet curly orchids and fiery tiger lilies that put sunsets to shame. There's enough food to feed a small country— hot homemade tamales steam at a booth for five dollars, throwing the savory scent of chorizo and pulled pork into the air to tangle with the salty sweet aroma of popped kettle corn, which is being scooped by the bucketful into pink paper bags. There are vegan cupcakes with swirled snow-white icing and drizzles of raspberry syrup, ten different kinds of hummus, chutney and olive tapenade set out beside falafel and hot crab cakes, sweet wines, soft cheeses, and glittering trays of crystalized honeycomb that sparkle like gold jewelry on sticky chain.

It's beautiful.

And it hurts, because he had forgotten what beauty was.

Striking as it is, the clamor of of it all begins to pound against his eardrums, wriggling uncomfortably into his lungs. He feels dizzy, can't quite catch his breath because it's a lot— a lot of people, a lot of noise, channeled into stimulation five times the intensity of what he's used to. It bombards his senses at a rate faster than what he can handle, and he instinctually stumbles a little closer to Derek, who pauses to glance back at him.

"You okay?"

"Yeah," he manages, dry swallowing a little as he hides his shaky fingers in his pockets. Derek reverts his attention, but slows his pace considerably so Stiles doesn't have to fight to keep up. For whatever reason the close proximity helps quell his hammering heart, and his legs carry him close enough to the werewolf's side that their arms nearly brush against each other. Derek's eyes dart down and notice, but if he minds he doesn't mention it.

His furry tour guide leads him to a tent with an impressive spread of garden vegetables, where neat stacks of bright green zucchini and plump, shiny tomatoes lounge beside bundles of fresh herbs on white cotton cloths. A short, stocky man with a roll of dough around his middle and a double chin to match adds branches of rosemary to the pile, handling the sprigs like they're his children. A weathered brown duckbill hat sits atop his receding hairline, close in hue to his leathery, sun-kissed skin and whiskery handlebar mustache, and tiny wrinkles emboss the corners of his brandy eyes as he catches sight of Derek, face immediately lighting up with a rosy grin.

"Derek, _il mio amico!"_ He exclaims, voice warm and gravelly as he steps forward to give Derek a firm handshake.

"Pietro, how are you?" Derek returns, and Stiles nearly chokes on his coffee when the werewolf actually smiles.

"Ah, good, good!" Pietro says, and his eyes twinkle like he really means it. He claps Derek on the back and notices Stiles then, crow's feet deepening with enthusiasm as his eyebrows disappear beneath the bill of his cap. _"Che fortuna!_ This must be your little friend!"

Stiles stiffens and swings his gaze to Derek, who looks like he just swallowed a bug. There's a bit of an awkward pause, because they aren't exactly friends— Stiles doesn't really know what they are, but it's hardly worth contemplating compared to how Pietro phrased the words, which indicated that Derek had mentioned him before.

Derek clears his throat. "This is… This is Stiles."

"Stiles!" Pietro proclaims, like his name is a word to be celebrated. "Good to meet you!" He reaches out for a handshake and Stiles shyly steps forward, nodding his head in greeting. The man's calloused palms clasp firmly over his cold fingers, and up close he can see a spray of freckles decorating his ruddy nose and cheeks. He gets a whiff of his breath, which smells of coffee and tobacco. Stiles decides he likes him.

"What have you got for us today?" Derek asks, folding his arms as he eyes the spread of produce.

"Ah, come, I show you!" Pietro announces, waddling over to the vegetables with a giddy spring in his step. His fingers flitter over the colorful items as he speaks. "This morning I pick fresh zucchini, eggplant, pepper— Very hard to grow this time of year, but I do it! All fresh herbs the same, picked right before I drive here… And ah, che bello," he says, eyes dancing as he gingerly picks up a large tomato and holds it up between his thumb and forefinger, as if it were a ruby. "Ripe romas! Beautiful harvest this time. _Molto doce,_ very sweet, very good for soup."

Derek picks up a tomato from the stack, squeezing it gently as he swivels it around.

"These look good, as always," he comments, nodding in approval. "We'll take a dozen, and some basil, too."

"Ah, what will you be making this time?" Pietro inquires, pulling out a paper bag from behind the table. He hands it to Derek, who starts plucking tomatoes from the pile on the table and sticking them inside.

"Lasagna."

"Ah, you like my idea! You need sausage? Giada made some fresh this morning, rolled with rosemary and paprika, eh?" Pietro gestures to a display by the herbs, grabbing a package of pink Italian links from a bed of ice. Derek glances at it, but shakes his head.

"No, thank you. We'll—"

"No, let's get some."

Stiles holds his ground as they pause and look up at the sound of his voice, perhaps because they forgot he was still there. Derek's eyebrow twitches, like he doesn't really believe it, or maybe it was just his way of asking, 'are you sure?' Stiles shrugs, giving a tiny nod, and Derek's lips do a funny twitch that make him suspect it's an effort to suppress a smile. Maybe not a smile, per say, but something.

"Alright," Derek says. "Two packages then."

"Ah, see? _Tuo amico_ knows what is good!"

Pietro collects the items and places them on a scale, adding up the prices with a calculator. The total is $26.25, and Derek hands him thirty and tells him to keep the change. The appreciation in the old man's laugh lines are genuine as he bids them goodbye.

_"Molte grazie! Buona giornata,_ boys!"

_"Arrivederci!"_ Derek replies good-naturedly over his shoulder, waving in departure, and Stiles decides that the day can't possibly get any weirder. They walk in silence for a few paces, footsteps heavy with unspoken questions and quiet apprehension until Stiles picks at a crack in the wall.

"I like him."

"...He's an old family friend."

"You've been coming here a while, huh?"

A pause. Derek nods, green eyes distant as if wading in a memory.

"Since I was younger… Yes."

Stiles twiddles with a piece of lint in his jacket pocket, thinking about that. He can hardly imagine a time when Derek was anything other than his stormy older self, but he must have been a kid at some point. He tries to visualize a young, chubby-cheeked Derek with awkward innocence and a carefree smile, but the imagery crumbles before it even forms, because 'carefree' and 'Derek' cancel each other out when they're in the same sentence.

"Come on, you can carry the bags," Derek says, and hands the groceries off to him before taking the lead to another booth. Stiles fumbles for a grip on the handles, watching him stride ahead. He shakes his head before following after him.

They parole the entirety of the market, weaving around chatty couples and colorful display tables throughout the stroll from tent to tent. They hardly say a word to each other, but Stiles doesn't mind. He's too busy watching in quiet fascination as Derek speaks openly to the vendors, engaging in polite smalltalk and biting wholeheartedly into samples like he truly appreciates the taste, eyes alight with more expression than Stiles has ever seen in them. He uses 'please's and 'thank you's with every purchase, and fishes out crisp green bills from his wallet without batting an eyelash; clearly, the guy was loaded. Stiles had been trained to shop by sale, but Derek doesn't even spare the price tags a glance.

More bags are added to his arms as they buy garlic, onions, apples, collard greens, handmade pasta tied up with green twine, and a wedge of gourmet cheese from a booth selling goat products (which included bars of soap, believe it or not). Stiles rearranges the parcels in his hands, flexing his fingers as a blonde woman rings Derek up for a sack of tangerines. His gaze wanders out across the grass, distracted by a savory-sweet aroma so alluring that he steps away, following his nose to a small set-up where a chef is ladling yellow batter onto a steaming black griddle and spreading it around with a wooden stick shaped like a car squeegee.

He observes shyly, entranced as the batter bubbles and turns golden-brown and crispy at the edges, thinner than a pancake as the man expertisely flips it over with the flick of a silver paddle. A generous dollop of Nutella is heaped on top and smeared across, glistening like liquid velvet as the hot pan melts it down. The buttery scent of hazelnuts and milk chocolate assault his nostrils, triggering an unexpected flood of saliva in his mouth.

"You want one?"

With a jolt he whirls around, sucking in a startled gasp. He loses his grip on the bags in the process, but Derek snaps out an arm and catches them before they hit the ground, slinging them over his shoulder like twenty pounds of produce wasn't weighing down the handles. Stiles tugs anxiously on the hem of his hoodie as the pounding in his chest recedes, baffled by how a guy of supernatural size and build could be so stealthy.

"N-no, it's okay," he stammers, under fire of a pink flush creeping up his neck. He licks his lips and drops his gaze to the grass, but the alpha just rolls his eyes.

"We'll take two, please," Derek tells the man, who nods and pours another ladle of batter onto the griddle.

"How do you guys want 'em?"

"One with banana and walnuts," Derek voices. He turns to Stiles, tipping his head expectantly.

"And…" Stiles clears his throat. "Uh, just plain, please."

The crepes are wrapped in paper and handed to them two minutes later, hot and dripping with gooey strings of hazelnutty goodness. Derek pays the man and they start walking again, side-by-side this time. Stiles blows on his breakfast, hesitantly nibbling at the corner. The pancake is moist and chewy between his teeth, and he's pleased to find that his appetite actually sticks around enough for him to continue grazing. It's messy but incredibly satisfying, and a few globs of chocolate ooze out and drop to the grass when he sinks his incisors in for a bigger bite. He glances at Derek, and can't help but stare as the werewolf rips into his own crepe, canines barred as he licks off a frilly ribbon of whipped cream. Some of it sticks to the stubble above his upper lip, and his tongue darts out and nabs it with a quick swipe before he continues chewing, cheeks full. It's intriguing and oddly breathtaking to witness Derek actually enjoying something, and in that moment he doesn't look like a werewolf; he looks normal. Human. Almost content— and there's something sad about how unusual it is.

Derek catches him staring then, and his eyebrow twitches in either amusement or distaste, Stiles can't tell.

"You've got chocolate on you," Derek says matter-of-factly, gesturing to his chin. Stiles wipes an arm across his jaw and pouts at the smear of brown on his sleeve.

"Yeah, well so do you," he scoffs, eying the thin line of Nutella decorating Derek's bottom lip. Derek wipes it away with his thumb and sucks it off with a wet squelch, and Stiles looks away before his knees give out.

They slow to a halt as they pass by the woman playing the fiddle, and stand to watch for a little while. Stiles makes it through half his crepe before his appetite suddenly falters, but he tries to finish it anyway to be polite, because Derek did spend money on it after all. He manages to force down two more small bites before he starts to feel ill, fingers hovering over his mouth.

"You don't have to finish it," Derek mentions quietly, apparently noticing his struggle. Stiles purses his lips, embarrassed as he stares at the half-eaten dessert in his hands.

"Sorry," he mumbles.

"Don't be. It's fine."

He stumbles over to a small trash bin a few paces behind them and tosses the crepe inside, but looks back with a start when he realizes that Derek had already finished his and thrown away the paper, and the folk group was playing a song different from the one when they had initially walked up. He didn't even notice. It wouldn't be the first time he had spaced out and skipped over a chunk of time, but it was a bit scarier when it happened in public. Rattled, he makes his way back to Derek, who asks him if he's ready to go. He nods, and Derek picks up the bags at his feet and drops a five into the fiddle lady's open case before departing, which earns him a wink.

When they make it back to the car Stiles practically collapses into the passenger seat on jello-like legs, suddenly weighed down with fatigue. They couldn't have walked around for more than an hour, but it was the most physical activity he'd done in five weeks, and he was drained. His _'amico'_ seems to notice as he climbs in behind the wheel.

"I have more errands to run," Derek states, eyeing him diagnostically. "Do you feel up to it? Or do you want me to drop you at home?"

Home.

Stiles can't help but flinch at the last word. Derek catches it, jaw immediately tightening like he wished he could take the phrase back, but it was too late. The temporary latch holding back his woes had already snapped like a twig, releasing the familiar flood of heavy gloom and unwanted memories upon his mind and body. It drowns his thoughts and washes away the lingering taste of chocolate from his tongue, seeping back into his bones with a chill that no amount of thermos-coffee can heat. His eyes fall to his lap and stay there.

"...I'd like to be dropped off at your place."

There's a stiff moment before Derek finally gives a curt nod and looks away, features hardening as the wall snaps back up in place. Stiles keeps his gaze chained to the window during the ride back, this time without The Black Keys to drown out the roaring echo in his head.

* * *

><p>Cheery sunlight greets him upon opening the door his bedroom, spilled in from the window. He goes over and shuts the blinds, concealing the space in the usual blue-tinted darkness. His spine bends into a slumped curve as he perches on the edge of the bed, letting his head dangle between his knees. He takes the opportunity to untie his shoes, which hit the carpet with a dull 'clunk' as he pries them off, kicking them over to his suitcase. He thinks that maybe he should unpack it, but unpacking is something people do when they move into a house.<p>

A home.

He closes his eyes, forcing himself to breathe in for four seconds, out for four seconds, and repeat before opening them again. When he does he spots the half-eaten box of red vines on his desk, down to just a few now, but they had gone stale from being left out for a week. They make him think of Scott— Scott, and his puppy dog eyes and good intentions and less-than-sharp demeanor, and how none of that had changed; how good it had been to engage with someone who actually spoke to him, who hadn't been afraid to reach out and touch him, embrace him. It makes him think of Derek, and how Derek wouldn't touch him unless he absolutely had to, certainly never for something as sappy as a hug. How Derek probably thinks it stupid that he and Scott express their affection so freely.

But he thinks of Derek, and how he'd texted Scott to make it happen anyway.

He thinks of shampoo, spaghetti, pillows and crepes.

Stiles peels off his hoodie and scoots up to the headboard, wiggling his legs beneath the comforter. He shudders and rearranges himself, trying to get comfortable, and once he does he fishes a hand underneath his pillow, wrapping his fingers around the cold metal of his dad's badge. He drags it out and blinks heavily, peeking at the chipped lettering between his slim fingers.

He falls asleep thinking about how he left his coffee in Derek's car.

It's the muffled racket of plastic bags and glass jars that finally yanks him into awareness, prompting him to kick off the covers and wander out into the kitchen, where he finds Derek emptying the contents of the fridge onto the counter.

"Hey," he croaks, stifling a yawn as he teeters to the cupboard in pursuit of a gatorade.

"Good, you're up."

"Good, you're still captain obvious," Stiles returns half-heartedly. Not his best retort, but he was out of practice. Derek shoots him a deadpan before ducking back inside the fridge, reemerging with several types of cheese in his hands. He adds them to the growing collection of ingredients on the counter.

"Isn't the point to keep food _inside _the fridge?"

"Not when you're going to cook it."

"Mm... 'Kay, well uh," Stiles pauses to take a swig of gatorade, making a little twirly gesture with his finger. "Have fun making your lasagna or whatever."

He pivots on his heels to return to his room, but Derek swings a hand out and grabs him by the arm, making a spurt of lemon-lime dribble over his lip and splatter to the floor. Gross. He was really going to have to work on keeping beverages inside his mouth, perhaps sometime when a massive werewolf hand wasn't clamped around his sleeve.

"Nope, come back," Derek states, tugging him backwards towards the counter. "You're going to help me make it."

Stiles wipes his chin and spins around, both surprised and a little afraid.

"Whoa, okay, uhm… I'm not really the 'cooking' type, so I'm gonna have to decline," He says slowly, timidly swatting at the hand on his arm until Derek lets go. The werewolf looks at him like he's expecting more, so he keeps talking to fill the space between them. "Like it's nice and all that you should think me capable of anything more than instant ramen, but, uh, these guys don't have much experience with anything outside of that," he wiggles his fingers in a jazz hands type gesture, halting when he realizes the implication of what he just said. Derek's eyebrow rises a little further.

"Oh, no, I didn't mean— I mean of course I've done things like _that…_ Okay, well no, maybe I haven't. B-but like, not because—" He blushes furiously, unable to stop the spew of babble from his mouth because Derek won't stop fucking looking at him with his stupid sky-high eyebrow. "—Look, either way it doesn't matter when cooking food. Which I'm not good at. Which is why you don't want my assistance, see? So… yeah."

Derek crosses his arms and watches him patiently, rubbing a thumb over his stubbly chin with a small twinkle in his eye, like he finds it secretly hilarious that stupid Stiles thinks he can talk his way out of helping. When he finally stutters to a stop the werewolf grabs a large colander off the counter and shoves it into his hands.

"You can start with washing the tomatoes."

Stiles stares blankly at the stainless steel. Derek looks at him expectantly, forever one without verbal communication. Stiles secretly curses him and the little smug twitch in his jaw as he takes the colander, huffing out a sigh.

"Fine. Just in the sink?"

"No, in the bathtub."

Stiles shoots the deadpan this time.

Derek drizzles a stream of olive oil in a pan, heating it over the stove while he unwraps the sausages they bought earlier that day. He crumbles the pink meat with his hands, dropping it by the chunk into the hot liquid where they hit the surface with wild sizzles, popping and filling the air with the aroma of italian herbs and sweet pork. Stiles doesn't dare look over as he rinses the romas, but is pleased to find that the smell of the meat doesn't bother him. When he's done he sets the clean tomatoes on the counter, standing awkwardly while Derek drags a stool over with his foot and shoves a large knife in his hand.

"Good," the alpha notes. He places an onion onto a wooden cutting board. "Now you can chop this."

Jesus Christ, the guy could win an award for blunt conduct.

"Yes, your highness," Stiles mutters under his breath, but takes the seat anyway. Derek looks at him but doesn't say anything, plucking a leaf of basil from the plant by the sink and sticking it in his mouth before returning to the stove. Stiles takes his time peeling the onion, partly because his mind and fingers aren't used to the fine motor skills and partly to annoy Derek, but the werewolf doesn't seem to be bothered by it.

"Uh, how do you want this thing cut?" He asks, knife cocked over the chopping board. Derek looks up from where he's shaking the pan over the stove, dusting the sauté with a pinch of salt.

"Check the recipe."

Stiles swivels his head around in five different directions, expecting to find a printed instructions from online or something, but instead he notices an aged, old-fashioned cookbook on the counter, open to a lasagna recipe. He reaches over and drags it closer with his fingertips, and a quick skim down the page reveals that the onion is meant to be finely chopped. Alright then.

The aroma of garlic and rosemary drifts past his nose as he sets to work, somehow making the mixture on the stove smell even better. He can see why Derek likes this; in a way it's kind of calming, just the slow repetition of slice and dice in the warm atmosphere of the kitchen, pleasant enough that he doesn't even feel the urge to scurry back to his room anytime soon. His gaze keeps wandering to the cookbook as he chops, particularly curious about the yellow sticky notes stuck at random between the pages. He wonders what they're for, and how often the werewolf dusts off the spine to access the recipes. The book looks just like the edition his mom used to have, and he suspects it probably used to belong to Derek's—

"Ow— _shit!"_ He hisses as the knife slips and slices his palm, dotting the floor with a small fleck of blood when it clatters to the tile below. He winces, both from pain and sheer _'how stupid are you?'_ Derek flicks off the stove and is at his side in an instant, eyebrows back in the usual 'v' shape.

"What did you do?" Derek demands, and grabs his wrist to inspect the cut. Stiles thinks the action is a little grabby, but he hops off the stool and reluctantly straightens out his fingers so the werewolf can see. The gash is long and semi-deep, an angry line stretching across the skin between his thumb and forefinger all the way to his pinky. It stings like a bitch and is bleeding way too much for him to be comfortable with, blood already pooling in the crevices of his palm. Derek lets out an exasperated sigh and pinches the bridge of his nose, as if Stiles's mere existence pains him.

"Do you_ ever_ pay attention?"

The unspoken 'idiot' in Derek's words rings clear as a bell. He grumbles something else but Stiles isn't really paying attention, because he's staring at the red running down his palm. It's a lot of blood for such a stupid injury, streaming heavily from the flap of skin and cascading down his arm in glistening crimson lines. The smell of copper hits his nose, and that's all it takes for him to sway to the side, eyelids fluttering. Derek curses under his breath and steadies him by the elbow.

"Don't you dare faint on me," Derek growls through gritted teeth, clamping down harder around his injured hand, but his head feels a little top-heavy and he can feel the blood spilling down his skin, down to his elbow now. It's slick and warm and wet, and Derek has four eyes before he has two again.

"No promises," he mumbles, and then the world jerks a bit as Derek pulls him by the arm down the hallway towards the bathroom. Somehow he manages to stay upright (albeit not very gracefully) throughout the journey until Derek plops him down on the edge of the tub, fingers still wrapped around his bloody wrist. He blinks as the alpha snatches a washcloth from the sink and presses it over the cut, not seeming to care at all about how his blood is about to soak the fluffy white towel beyond repair.

"Keep pressure on it," Derek orders, and retracts his hold to go over to the sink.

"M'gonna ruin your towel," He mumbles, half-surprised when his words come out kind of slurred.

"Shut up, Stiles."

Stiles makes a little raspberry sound with his lips at that, because he can't seem to recall the last time Derek told him to shut up, which is funny because it used to be the guy's favorite catchphrase around him. Come to think of it, this was the first time Derek had told him shut up at all since last year.

He watches as the alpha swings open the compartment under the sink and sticks a hand inside, reemerging with a small first aid kit. The case gleams with unscathed plastic, and when Derek opens it all the supplies are present and in place, never before used.

"Why do you have that?" He questions, puzzled and dizzy. "You're a werewolf, you grew up in a family of werewolves. You heal yourself."

Derek swings his gaze to the ceiling and huffs out a short breath through his nostrils. Stiles looks too, but nothing is up there.

"Yes, but you don't," Derek huffs impatiently, proceeding to tear open a packet of disinfectant wipes with his teeth.

Stiles does shut up then, silenced as it occurs to him that Derek must have gone out and bought the first aid kit for him when he moved in. He's surprised, a little heart-warmed, partially skeptical. He can just imagine the werewolf humdrum and scowling as he scrolled through Amazon in search of one, muttering obscenities to himself because he was about to take in a human accident-prone enough to maim himself cutting an onion.

It's a talent, really.

The werewolf pushes his hand aside and snatches the washcloth from his cut, now spotted with bright red blotches. Stiles stares at the blood, the blood on the towel, his arm, where it's smeared on his wrist from Derek's fingers, and sees the blood of his father's veins every smudged pattern. He sucks in a shaky breath, feeling the color drain from his face as crimson images from that night assault his mind and steal the steady rhythm of his heart. His head dips and he sways forward a little bit, but Derek quickly presses a palm to his shoulder and steadies him, looking up sharply, and Stiles can see the moment understanding clicks in his eyes.

"Hey, you're fine," Derek says, the gruffness in his tone suddenly watered down. He uses the washcloth to wipe away the blood running down his arm. "Don't look."

Stiles obediently turns to the side, gluing his gaze to the white towel hanging on the wall to his left. It doesn't distract him from the sensation of blood trickling down his palm, so he tries looking to the mirror (shit, he's really pale), then the ceiling (whoa, bad idea), a stain on the floor (toothpaste, probably), but nothing seems to work. He settles for looking at Derek instead, who's fixated on cleaning his cut, face less than a foot away from his own. From this angle Stiles can practically count his eyelashes, and watches them twitch, casting little feathery shadows on the werewolf's cheeks. He can see the indention of the cleft on his chin, the smooth slope of his cheekbones and the way his mouth is tensed ever-so-slightly like it always is, never free from the internal storm of his past. He feels a strange urge to reach out with his good hand and brush his fingers along the werewolf's stubble, just to see if it's as scratchy and rough as it looks, and wonders if there would be dimples there if the guy ever smiled.

The cut stings as Derek dabs at it with the antiseptic wipe, but Stiles blinks through it, transfixed as he picks out more and more details on the face before him. Once or twice Derek's eyes flick up and meet his own for a split second before darting back down. He doesn't say anything. Stiles feels him unwrap a strip of gauze and wrap it around his palm, but he doesn't look down until Derek snaps the kit closed and stands up.

"There. You're fine."

Stiles rotates his hand, examining the white layers of soft cotton. It's surprisingly well-done.

"Thanks," he mutters, carefully standing up as Derek tucks the kit back under the sink.

"Wouldn't have been necessary if you actually paid attention to what you were doing once in a while."

"Hey, I warned you cooking wasn't my forte. Not my fault your knives are so friggin' sharp."

They step out to the hallway, where a trail of crimson droplets leads to the kitchen. Oops.

"Sorry," he mutters.

"It's not the first time blood's been on the floor," Derek says simply, and bends down to clean it up with the washcloth.

When they return to the kitchen Derek jerks his head in the direction of the stool, motioning for him to sit. Stiles does so without complaint and watches as the werewolf turns the stove back on, finishing all the preparations in the blink of an eye. He throws the remaining ingredients together like it's second nature, dicing the onion three times faster than his human aid, and Stiles wonders why he wanted his help, because clearly he just slowed the guy down. Regardless, Derek places the basil plant in front of him when he's stirring the sauce, and Stiles picks off leaves with his uninjured hand makes a little pile for him to chop.

Once the pan is in the oven Derek heads to the living room, and after a short hesitation Stiles follows after him. They watch TV on the couch while they wait, and this time Derek doesn't flip rapid-fire through the channels before picking a station. He settles for a _Seinfeld_ marathon, and although neither of them join in with the laugh track, the atmosphere isn't uncomfortable. When the timer goes off Derek rises, but tells him to stay when he shifts to get up as well. A few minutes later the alpha returns with two steaming plates of lasagna and hands him one with a fork before sitting back down. It's delicious, hot and gooey with strings of mozzarella that cling to their forks in long strands. Stiles digs in and doesn't think twice about the sausage.

Outside the sun sinks behind the trees, casting pastel shadows across the floor as they watch George and Jerry joke their way through ironic turns and shenanigans, occasionally getting a shove in the chest and a 'get out!' from Elaine. It's refreshingly simple, and he loses track of the number of episodes that go by before Derek gets up and takes their plates to the kitchen. Stiles follows suit and stands by the sink as Derek hand-washes the pots, drying them best he can with a towel when they are set aside. After they finish he stifles a yawn and claps his good hand against Derek's shoulder, mumbling "g'night, Derek" before returning to his room.

He falls asleep to the realization that he clapped Derek on the shoulder, and Derek didn't do anything about it.

* * *

><p><em>Darkness.<em>

_For a foggy night in the otherwise tranquil woods, it was chaos._

_The whizz of Allison's arrows whistled incessantly from somewhere on the other side of the dark clearing, scattering high-pitched echoes off the trees in syncopation with the vicious snarls and roars that rattled the air, courtesy of Scott, Isaac and Derek as they took on their alpha foes in violent battle of bloodied claw and barred fang. The moonlight bathed their figures in an eerie blue glow, illuminating the crimson on their skin and making the unnatural glint in their irises pop out like burning flames. Kali and her pack danced around their blows with startling speed, but every time one of them got too close Lydia would chuck a molotov cocktail at their feet from her hidden position on the outskirts, alighting the woods with a loud 'bang' and a flare of neon orange light._

_He clutched his bat, twisting his body sharply as another arrow whizzed over his crouched stance behind the jeep, where Lydia had dragged him for safekeeping after he was brained against a tree. He reached up and dabbed at his temple again, fingertips coming away slick with a red smear. Another howl of pain ripped through the air —Scott's this time— and he decided to fuck it; a concussion was no excuse to sit on the sidelines and look pretty while his friends risked furry limb._

_He lurched upright, sparking fireworks in his vision as he swayed against the jeep, leaning heavily against the passenger door for balance. After a round of wild blinking the kaleidoscope blotches faded away, but two blurry white dots remained in his vision, growing bigger by the second. He squinted in confusion, eyes stretching wide with horror as the lights grew closer and squeaked to a halt a few yards behind his jeep, revealing the silhouette of a 2005 Crown Victoria police cruiser._

_No._

_He pushed off and staggered forwards, stumbling towards the car as quickly as he could. His dad stepped out from the behind the wheel and raced to meet him, catching him just in time before he face-planted into the dirt._

_"Stiles! Stiles, are you okay? Jesus Christ…"_

_His dad demanded sharply, too loudly as he gripped him by the arms and held him upright. He smelled of aftershave and newspaper ink, and Stiles wanted nothing more to shove his face into the man's uniform and breathe it all in until he fell asleep, but instead he shook his head stubbornly and resisted because his dad couldn't be here —shit, his dad was here— thirty feet away from a raging supernatural battle with alphas and arrows and too many claws that could rip a hole in his chest and stop his—_

_"D-dad," he breathed, eyes darting wildly over his father's face, as if trying to find a wrinkle out of place to indicate that it wasn't really his dad— that it was all just a hallucination from hitting his head and the man he loved most was actually at home on the couch watching the Mets game, safe and sound and probably eating more potato chips than he should._

_"How— w-what are you doing h-here?" He stammered, cursing the waver in his voice._

_"I'm here to help protect my son," his dad replied grimly, hardly getting the words out before he thrusted forward and pulled him into a fierce hug, only to wrench back a second later and look him over, frowning as he examined his soiled appearance._

_"You're hurt!" The Sheriff stated sharply, forehead wrinkles scrunching even deeper as he zeroed in on the gash on his temple and clamped a palm around his cheek to get a better look at it. Stiles squirmed as his dad prodded a gentle thumb at the wound, as if that would help._

_"Dad, d-dad I'm fine," He insisted, stubbornly pushing the hands away. "Dad, you can't be here," he pressed breathlessly, fear mounting as more shouts and growls sounded from the other end of the clearing. "You need to go, _now—_ these are werewolves, very _dangerous_ werewolves, okay? Normal guns won't—"_

_"—Won't work?" His dad cut in, raising an eyebrow. "Stiles, I may be new to the whole supernatural thing, but as soon as I heard that you kids were intercepting an alpha pack headed for Beacon Hills— 'you kids' including _you?_ Of course I came," he said fiercely, squeezing him by the shoulders. "As for the firearms, I borrowed a toy or two from Argent." His dad smirked a bit, swiveling his torso to the side to reveal a silver gun in the holster of his belt. "Wolfsbane bullets, apparently."_

_Stiles couldn't help but feel a pang of admiration for that last one, but he shoved it aside, opening his mouth to protest further._

_"Dad, no, you could get—"_

_"Stiles, when has safety ever been a concern of yours when you run out to do these crazy stunts?" His dad interrupted with a touch of impatience, clearly over the heroics. He looked tired, grey eyes framed with more tiny crinkles than Stiles remembered. Even in the pale lowlight he could pick out the silver hairs peppering the man's receding hairline, and couldn't help but feel responsible for it. But then his dad sighed, eyes softening as he reached out to ruffle his hair, and Stiles saw that his laugh lines were more prominent than before too._

_"I'm sticking right by your side, kiddo."_

_He swallowed thickly as his dad retracted his fingers from his hair, giving in to a tiny a smile before perturbation stole it away._

_"Alright…" He finally muttered. "But promise me when we get home you'll lay off the fast food for a month."_

_"Only if you promise to find something better than a baseball bat."_

_"Never."_

_"Exactly."_

_They pulled each other up and he quickly lead them around the outskirts of the clearing to Lydia, who was crouched behind a tree assembling more firebombs. Her hair was wild with flyways and her makeup was smeared, but she still looked just as beautiful as ever, if not a little scary. She looked up sharply, disapproval clearly written on her face as she eyed his head injury, but didn't argue because she knew he wouldn't listen, and there was no time for arguing anyway. Then her eyes landed on his dad, and she froze and did a double-take, something fearful flickering through her features. Before Stiles could ask she snapped her battle expression back into place, shoving a couple of glass bottles into their hands._

_For a few glorious minutes everything played out like a dream, almost in slow motion as their counterparts flawlessly melded together, filling the atmosphere with orange explosions and the sharp 'splunk' of when one of Allison's arrows hit their target. Scott and the others seemed to be taking the lead, having taken out two of Kali's pack members with a final, messy slash to the throat. Now only Ennis and the she-wolf herself remained, bloodied and seething, the animalistic rage in their eyes visible even from their stance behind the trees._

_It wasn't until Scott was knocked down and Ennis sprinted towards him that Stiles charged forwards into the battle, last cocktail in hand —it was stupid, but that was his point in the pack— to run out and do stupid things when his friends needed him, and right now he needed to get close enough to make the shot._

_"Stiles!" The cohesive shouts of Lydia and his dad rang out behind him, but he ignored them._

_"Scott! SCOTT!" He screamed, panic shredding his shouted warning as Ennis swung a massive fist at his best friend, who twisted to the side just in time. Scott sucked in a gasp and blinked up at him, spotting the bottle in his grip, and quickly rolled onto his knees and scrambled away from the alpha. Scotty boy— dim as a thirty-watt more often than not, but blessedly coherent in life-threatening situations._

_He threw his arm back and chucked the cocktail at Ennis with everything he had. The momentum knocked him off balance, sending him sprawling hard onto his stomach as the bottle hurtled through the air and shattered a good teen feet to the left of the alpha, erupting in a ball of flame that did little more than toast the werewolf's sideburns._

_He never was a very good lacrosse player._

_"STILES!"_

_Lydia shrieked again from somewhere behind him, snapping him into focus. He wrenched his head up and coughed, sucking in a shallow wheeze in a desperate attempt to get air into his lungs. When the spots in his vision subsided he froze as he met the sight of Ennis, rigid stance and clawed fists silhouetted by the flames, staring right at him with a murderous glint in his eyes. Then without warning the alpha bellowed and shot forward at impossible speed, lunging straight for his throat. There was another scream, a blur of motion as he squeezed his eyes shut, bracing for the painful slice of claw to his flesh—_

_Bang._

_The gunshot tore through the clearing like a sonic boom, slamming his ears with a painful ringing. The blast drew everyone's attention, locking all sound and movement into a shocked silence as Ennis jerked back with a spray of blood, gagging soundlessly while crimson gushed from a gaping hole in his chest, right over his heart. The werewolf crumpled heavily to the ground in front of him, convulsing briefly as the wound turned black, and then with a final spasm his head flopped to the side and fell still, eyes wide open and unseeing._

_Silence._

_Stiles scrambled onto his back and whipped his head around, eyes stretching wide when they landed on the figure standing with face set in stone, gaze grim and steely upon the motionless figure on the ground. His arm was still outstretched, the cocked gun in his hand still smoking._

_And then there was a howl, one so tortured and enraged that it shot straight through his bones._

_His dad didn't even have time to scream before her claws ripped through his ribcage, slicing through flesh and bone with a sickening squelch and a shower of blood. __Their eyes locked, and the pale grey irises screamed with everything left unsaid. A second later the light faded from them, and small red bubble glistened on his dad's lip, spilling over in a single bead as he dropped lifelessly to the ground, shock still etched onto his face._

_Crimson._

_Howling._

_Screaming._

* * *

><p>"DAD—!"<p>

His own gasp slaps him into reality, roughly yanking him awake in an icy chokehold.

The remnants of the dream are slow to fade away, strangling him in gory imagery that exacerbates the lingering chill in his bones. He wheezes and trembles in his sheets, fumbling under his pillow for the badge, but not even the texture of the cold metal can help— he's too far gone, rapidly succumbing to the steel jaws tightening around his lungs. The terror bludgeons his gasps into strained staccato breaths— there's not enough oxygen in the room, and with a wave of despair he grips the sheets and squeezes his eyes shut, because no— this couldn't be happening, he had been doing so well with keeping them under control.

Reality was slipping away from him with each shallow, scratched-up breath, making him feel light and hazy as he twists in his sheets, trying desperately to suck in a full lungful of air that stopped short each time. His thrashing grew weaker as panic weighed down his limbs with pins and needles, a deadened storm aside the hammering rhythm of his heart. It was like he was drowning, sinking under waves of dread and dizziness spurred from pathetic coffee-straw lungs.

God, he couldn't _breathe—_

He was going to _die—_

Breathe, _breathe_

He couldn't—

A vignette of darkness crowds the corners of his vision just as he faintly registers the sound of a door slamming open, a slight sagging of the mattress to his right, and then—

"—iles, Stiles, breathe!"

Suddenly there was a hand on his chest, and another on his shoulder. He weakly tries to arch his back but they hold him down, firm and warm against the fabric of his shirt. A strangled squeak catches in his throat like nails on a chalkboard, and the hand on his shoulder moves up and cups his forehead. Stiles wilts a little beneath the touch, chest loosening enough for him to suck in a breath a little deeper than the others. The oxygen burns sweetly in the back of his throat, and almost immediately he spits it out again with a jerk and greedily sucks in another.

"—hat's it. Good, again. Breathe in. One… Two..."

The voice continues to count up to four and repeat, and each round Stiles makes it a little further before losing the battle to exhalation. It takes a while, but when he's finally able to make it to four and back without interruption he goes limp, exhausted and trembling beneath the oddly calming hands over his heart and brow. Panting, he blinks against the dark, faintly making out the soft edges of the room and the figure looming over the side of his bed. Derek's grey-green eyes stare back at him, almost luminescent in the pitch black surroundings. Stiles swallows stiffly, suddenly hyper-aware of the cold sweat slicking his back and forearms, and is embarrassed to note that his cheeks and eyelashes are wet as well.

He flinches involuntarily, immediately regretting it when Derek takes it as a sign of discomfort and quickly retracts his hands. Dizzy and more than a little self-conscious, Stiles scoots up onto his elbows, realizing that his dad's badge is still gripped tightly in his fist. Derek's eyes flicker down to it. He quickly shoves it back under his pillow.

"H-how did you..." He starts, dry swallowing when his ragged voice putters out.

"I heard your heartbeat."

Right. Stiles drops his eyes to the sheets, wiping the sweat from his chin with the back of his hand. Panic attacks. He recognized the symptoms like old friends, and despised them like his worst enemies— the way his chest grew tight and stung as if his heart was about to explode, paired with an overwhelming sense of impending doom that rattled him to the core. His dad used to be the one to pull him out of them; Stiles was convinced that the man must have hidden baby monitors in his room somewhere, because he always seemed to know when he was getting one, even in the early hours of the morning when they hit in the middle of writing a school paper. His dad would burst in, eyes crummy with sleep and drag him over to the bed, rubbing small circles into his back with a small sigh until he fell asleep. The next day the Sheriff would never utter a word about how he should have started the essay earlier instead of cramming it in the night before.

"Are you okay now?"

Derek's voice is calm, low and gentle against his thoughts.

"Yeah, just… Yeah."

"Do you need a glass of water?"

"No… No, thanks."

Derek lingers a moment before nodding and turning away. He almost makes it to the door.

"Wait," Stiles blurts, craning his head up a little higher. "Counting to four. You had me breathe in for four seconds," he murmurs, licking his lips as he studies the werewolf's back. "That's an anxiety technique. H-how did you… How did you know to do that?"

Derek pauses. He's barefooted, wearing a pair of black sweats and a dark cotton tee, looking almost human as he stands by the door. He doesn't turn around when he answers.

"Because I had nightmares, too. After the fire."

Stiles stares at him, eyes wide. The whisper slips past his tongue before he thinks to stop it.

"When… When do they stop?"

"After you let go."

"…When did you let go?"

"I haven't yet."

And the werewolf leaves, shutting the door softly behind him. Stiles stares at it for a long time, feeling like he'd just picked at a lock he didn't really have the keys to. Finally he lays back down, head aching with the leftover dregs of the attack as he allows his cheek to sink back into the pillow. He wraps his good hand back around the badge, and flexes his bad hand in front of his face, thoughtfully examining the gauze wrapped around his palm before letting his eyes flutter closed.

He falls asleep to the heavy lull of his thoughts, wondering if it was just another dream, or if Derek Hale really just confessed that he still got nightmares.

* * *

><p>The next morning Derek is no where to be found.<p>

There are two sticky notes on the counter, the first to appear in a long time.

_MS MCCALL LEFT QUICHE IN FRIDGE_

_BE CAREFUL CUTTING INTO IT_

He feels his lips twitch a little bit. It's not quite a smile, but close.

With a yawn he shuffles to the refrigerator and cracks it open, absently noting how it was the first time he's ever even touched the handle. He spots the quiche sitting on the second rack in a glass pyrex, the same dish Melissa used for her famous pumpkin pie every Thanksgiving. He lifts up the foil and picks off a piece of crust, stuffing it inside his mouth before shutting the door.

He makes his way to the bathroom, halting when he spots himself in the mirror. He goes up to the glass and pokes his cheeks with a couple fingers; there's more color to them now, and they don't stick out so razor-sharp anymore. He yanks up his shirt and prods his navel, confirming that he's put on weight, cushioning his ribs in a more comfortable layer of flesh. His eyes dart back up and meet their reflection, looking oddly bright without the dark ring of purple beneath them, almost like they did last year. His hair could use a trim, but other than that he looks….

Better.

Huh.

He grabs his toothbrush and fishes out the toothpaste from behind the mirror, frowning when he finds the tube is empty. He tosses it into the wastebasket, making a mental note to ask Derek to put it on the shopping list as he pulls out the drawers and searches for another, scratching his head with a sigh when he finds none. Then he realizes that duh, he lives with a werewolf with a pretty impressive set of pearly-whites— the guy was bound to have toothpaste upstairs.

Stiles treks up to the second floor, toothbrush in hand as he reaches the hallway. It takes a few wrong guesses of closet doors before he finds and pokes his head into Derek's bathroom, feeling rather invasive. In some ways a bathroom was more personal than a bedroom, and right now he was a little weirded out knowing that he was standing in the same space that his housemate took a piss. At least the area is clean, laid with pale blue tile and a shiny granite sink. An electric razor sits by the soap, undoubtedly for trimming the werewolf's perfectly-scupted stubble. He swipes a tube of Crest from the sink, squeezing a glob onto his brush before screwing the cap back on and hastily departing.

He almost makes it back to the stairs before he pauses, sight and mind snagging on something at the end of dim hallway. Slowly he turns around, eyes locking on the battered door nestled at the end of corridor. It was the room he'd asked about on the day he arrived— the one Derek had warned him never to go in.

The air seems to still. Even the birds outside stop chirping as he takes a cautious step forward, entranced. He inches across the hall until he reaches the door, rationale muffled by the pull of his curiosity. Up close the wood is battered and splintered, marred by ugly black scorch stains. It's the only door in the house that hadn't been repainted. He reaches out a hand, tracing his fingers delicately down five long slashes in the wood.

Stiles bites his lip, nervously stealing a paranoid glance over his shoulder. The house was quiet, the halls empty. He turns back to the door, eyeing the rusted handle. He knows he shouldn't, knows that Derek might really kill him if he ever finds out— but the mystery behind the room had been eating away at him since day one.

And Derek wasn't home.

The door unsticks with a rough squeak, like it hadn't been opened in a long time. His hand hovers over the wood as it swings away from the frame, creaking a loud warning to turn around. He ignores it and takes a step forward, skin prickling with gooseflesh.

Pale grey light from a broken window skims the dim room with ghostly fingers, staining the edges of the wreckage that litter the floor. Glass and ash blanket the floor like a carpet, on which tattered, blackened curtains lay crumpled in limp strings, matching the chipped peel of the moldy walls. It's barren except for a few pieces of broken furniture —a chest of drawers, warped bookshelves, a toppled chair— all of which lay scattered in ugly splinters around the space. Deep gashes mark the soot-stained walls where pictures have been torn down, just like the claw marks on the outside of the door, and scaly obsidian burn marks cover it all, poaching the air with the acrid sting of charred wood and tragedy of the past.

Every hair on his body screams to turn around and go back, but Stiles creeps closer, beckoned by a dusty frame face-down on the floor by the nightstand. He bends down and carefully picks up the photo, lips parting a little as he examines the picture behind the cracked glass. A man and woman smirk at the camera, both beautiful and sultry with dark hair and sharp canines. Three kids stand in front of them— two girls, one older and more serious than the other, and a boy that looked to be about his age, with familiar eyebrows and a carefree smile on his face.

_Bang._

He jerks as he hears the front door slam shut, cringing as the photo slips from his fingers and hits the hardwood with a loud clatter. There's a tense pause as it grows quiet downstairs, in which he holds his breath like his life depends on it— but a second later footsteps are thundering up the staircase, and this time Stiles knows he's going to die, because he's about to be caught red-handed breaking the one rule of the house—

The rule that happened to protect the werewolf's most personal secret.

He stumbles backwards, heartbeat jackhammering in his ears like a booming countdown. He has about two seconds to panic before the footsteps reach the top of the stairs and round the corner of the hallway. A second later the door slams against the wall, making ash rain from the ceiling as Derek bursts into the room and lets out a terrifying roar, fangs barred and eyes blazing.

* * *

><p><strong>IMPORTANT ANNOUNCEMENT:<strong> This chapter was created with the accompaniment of **28 drawings** that literally took me a week to draw, and the story was intended to function around these drawings. In other words, I **HIGHLY recommend you find "Home" on AO3** to get the_ full effect_ of this story, _especially_ this chapter. Thank you for reading and reviewing! Love, The Typewriter Girl :)


	6. Chapter 6

Fury.

It consumes him, burning through his veins and shrouding all other senses in a curtain of red.

Stiles was in the room.

_The_ room.

Derek had just gotten back from a run, trotting up the porch with the cool air of the woods still clinging to his sweat, but the euphoria dissipated as soon as he walked through the door and heard a loud clatter from upstairs, accompanied by a panicked heartbeat. He had halted for a split second, nearly crushing the doorknob in his fist because he knew exactly what had dropped, and exactly which room it came from.

And there was only one other person in the house to wander inside.

In a blink he's at the top of the stairs, stomach twisting into something ugly when he sees the door open a crack— invaded for the first time since the fire. Another blink and suddenly he's barging inside, roaring and standing amongst the wreckage for the first time in nearly six years. The space looks almost the same as it did back then, when he had raked his claws through the burnt furnishings in a grief-stricken rage after the funeral. It had been his parents' bedroom; once spacious and beautiful with his father's desk chair and his mother's antique vanity, the purple comforter that Laura liked to steal and the closet that he and Cora used to crawl in as kids for hide-and-seek, now soiled with mold and blackened with soot. It wasn't how he wanted to remember it, which was why he had vowed never to step foot inside again, locking away his grief behind the closed door.

But now the door was open.

And in turn, ripped off the band-aid and reopened his wound.

It hits him all at once —the broken window, the toppled dressers and smashed lamps and shredded curtains, the way the seasons had raided the wreckage with wind and rain and left behind moss doilies and damp leaves on every surface— and Stiles standing in the midst of it all, doe-eyed and quaking like a scared rabbit. Before Derek can even form a thought his wolf lunges to the forefront and seizes control, and in a flash he's grabbing the human by the collar and slamming him up against the wall with enough force to make him yelp, shaking dust loose from the ceiling.

"What the FUCK do you think you're _doing_ in here?" He demands through clenched teeth, nose wrinkling above his jagged canines. Each word oozes out through a wall of rage so thick that it physically pains him, more so than it does to see Stiles flinch and rear his head back against the wall, as if trying to disappear into the chipped paint.

"Shit— I-I'm s-sorry, I was j-just—" Stiles stutters, clearly terrified as he squirms in his grip, sneakers scrabbling uselessly over the broken glass on the floor from when he had punched through the window. The teen's heart rate is through the roof, but Derek bears no pity, blinded by the torment of his uprooted grief.

"I told you NEVER to fucking GO in here!"

"I k-know, D-Derek, I'm sorry—"

"SORRY ISN'T GOOD ENOUGH!" He screams— a sound at such shredded decibel that he even surprises himself, because he hasn't yelled like that since the fire. Stiles flinches again, squeezing his eyes shut against the volume, and Derek whips his gaze to the floor. A toothbrush lies in the rubble beside the familiar photo frame, which is face-up and staring right at him, a smear of toothpaste smudged on the corner.

And everything snaps.

He roars, releasing Stiles's shirt to lunge for the wall. He rakes his claws through the enamel in a violent swipe, sending a shower of dust and wood splinters into the air. His wolf pillages all instinct and snatches the reins, driving him in storm throughout the room just as he had done once before as a broken-hearted teenager. Wood cracks like thunder as he knocks over what's left of the dresser, kicking through the drawers with a crunch and then taking his boot to the closet door, which gives way like plywood. Another swipe of his claws and the ruined mattress tears open with a flurry of blackened feathers and mildew, swirling in the air as he rips out the springs and chucks them at the spot on the wall where Laura's artwork used to hang. The grief ravages him, digging up repressed memories and fueling the drive to destroy as much as he can, because if he can destroy the physical remains of his past then maybe the pain will crumble with it— and he whirls around to lunge for the nightstand beside Stiles, who flinches and throws his arms up to shield his face—

And immediately Derek snaps out of it, nearly losing his footing as he jerks backwards because—

Oh god, the kid thought he was going to _hit_ him.

The effect is instantaneous; he blinks and the red drains from his vision, the fury falling from his stature. He blanches, forgets how to breathe, feels his mouth drop open as he takes another clumsy step back. Stiles looks scared of out his wits, pressed up against the wall like his life depends on it. His chest rises and falls rapidly as he stares at him, eyes two impossibly huge brown orbs. The sudden silence is deafening, interrupted only by the gentle caress of the breeze through the window, which softly stirs up the ash at their feet. A few feathers from the mattress settle to the ground and float across the floor.

"I…"

Derek starts, but the words die before they even form, leaving him to trail off pathetically. He's at a complete loss of what to say, how he can _fix_ this. Stiles just continues to stare at him, so _betrayed_, which somehow makes everything worse. But then there's a shift; a rift in the tension as the amber irises darken and narrow into slits, and Stiles's mouth compresses into an angry pucker.

"What? What is it, Derek?" Stiles spits viciously, pushing forward off the wall with his hands, which immediately take position as tight fists down at his sides. "Are you SORRY_? _Sorry for being such a big, fucking BRUTE, because that's all you'll ever be! A big, violent _jerk_ who destroys everything in your path!"

Derek freezes at the words, taken aback. Stiles bravely strides forwards, pushing well into his personal space, and up close Derek can see the thin lines contorting the teen's brow; _smell_ the lividity radiating off of him, and distantly thinks how this was the most expression he'd seen in the kid since January first.

"You spend all this time moping in your giant empty mansion, repainting the walls and putting pictures over burn marks but guess what?" Stiles snarls, stretching out his neck so that their faces are less than a foot away from each other. "They can't cover up the fact that your family died, or the fact that you're too much of a _coward_ to let it GO! You can't hide your tragic past underneath coats of _paint, _Derek!"

The words sting. They sting because they're true, and he's horrified yet far from surprised that Stiles was able to pick out and decipher it, only to spit it back in his face like an ugly slap. He tries to think of a comeback, a denial, anything— but he can only stare as the teen continues.

"And FUCK you for trying to hide it!" Stiles screeches, impending tears shredding his voice to smithereens. Derek can see him losing control, beginning to crumble beneath his emotion, but Stiles pushes on, eyes pinched and glimmering with pooling rage. "FUCK YOU for having a hissy fit over it, because I lost my family _too,_ and I don't go around trashing your house over it! My dad was KILLED in front of me, Derek! He fucking DIED for me! _ME! _He was the greatest man I ever knew, and I'm NEVER! GETTING! HIM! _BACK!" _

And a sob breaks free as Stiles abruptly lashes out with the last statement, landing a sharp punch to Derek's stomach with each word. It's unexpected, intense, laughable in any other situation— but it catches Derek off guard, snapping something beneath his ribcage that he didn't think was still there. The blows hardly make a dent; Derek's first instinct is to simply step to the side and let the kid fall on his face, but he can't. Instead he simply stands and lets Stiles wail on him, because he can take it and because Stiles needs it.

"FUCKING FIGHT _BACK,_ YOU ASSHOLE!" Stiles screams desperately, skin flushing an ugly red with the strain of his shout. His punches grow weaker and more uncoordinated as his rage erodes to wretched frustration, but Derek doesn't move.

"No," he says. Calmly. Quietly. Which only makes Stiles rip his hands away and shriek with frustration.

"Why the fuck _NOT!" _Stiles throws back, a thin string of spittle flying out with the demand. His face shines wet with tears and there's a thin line of snot dripping over his top lip, but he doesn't seem to care. "I can recall more than one occasion where you threatened to rip my _throat_ out, don't you? You've made it clear enough in the past that you can't _stand_ me!"

And that's when Derek lashes out his arms to grip Stiles by the shoulders, bucking his head forward so they're eye-to-eye.

_"Don't_ say that!" He spits with more intensity than anticipated, and Stiles rears his head back and blinks, startled with the ferocity in his voice. "Do you really think I would offer to take you in if I hated your guts? Did you think I would hold your half-conscious ass in place while you downed a can of soda after you passed out from your own _fucking_ idiocy? How about wrap up that stupid cut on your hand, huh? Cook meals for you instead of letting you dick around on an empty stomach? It's about time you pulled your head out of your ass and started _thinking_ again, Stiles!"

For a split second Stiles looks humbled into silence, but spite quickly overrides it.

"Get my head out of _my_ ass?!" Stiles wrenches out of his grip and takes a step back, incredulous. "Says the guy who refuses to say more than a couple words a day! Prior to this whole shitfest you treated me like _dirt,_ Derek— and you expect me to accept all your sudden cordiality without a grain of salt? How the hell am I supposed to know what you're thinking when all you ever do is knit your fucking eyebrows together? How the hell am I supposed to understand why you just stood there and did_ nothing_ after he died, Derek! You just stood there with your fucking scowl and then _ran off_, and you expect me to believe that your intentions are all sunshine and roses?!"

"You don't GET it!" Derek snarls, the outburst jumping out on it's own accord. "If I had just— If I had just been there a _second _sooner—"

"Is that why you took me in?" Stiles interrupts softly, eyes growing wide with hurt before narrowing again. "Because you felt bad? Because you've assigned my dad's death to your own guilt complex?!"

"NO!"

"THEN _WHY!"_

"Because—"

Derek breaks off, suddenly jerking back as if the words had burned him. There it was. The question he didn't even fully know the answer to himself, phrased by the human who conjured an onset of emotions he typically didn't like to get too comfortable with. His eyes dart over Stiles's face like a tape on fast-forward, emotions flickering rapid-fire through what seem like twenty different reactions: surprise, anger, uncertainty, fear— but then there's something else, something warmer that only flickers for a split second, but it makes Stiles blink in surprise.

His lips twitch on the verge of saying something, but then he clamps them together and clicks the default scowl back into place, locking up whatever was inside behind a dark facade.

"Because." He states flatly, and drops his eyes to the floor. "Just because."

Stiles stares at him, eyes almost comically wide as they jump wildly over his face, desperately searching for an answer that wasn't there— _begging_ him to keep talking and prove his point wrong. Derek can't. He can see the moment Stiles gives up, and crumples inwardly as the teen shakes his head a little and takes another step back, allowing room for the wall to swell between them. Time stretches on painfully between them, grating against Derek's skin.

"You know, I don't know why I ever agreed to move in with you," Stiles mutters quietly. He chuckles softly, lip twisting as if the laugh leaves a bitter taste in his mouth. The fire in his eyes dims to a dull flame; the kind of anger that is left when passion flickers out, leaving only hopeless resignation. It translates into tone as he delivers the last line, eyes boring fixedly into Derek's own.

"This place will _never_ be home."

And Stiles shoves past him, storming down the hall without another word. Derek stands silently and lets him go, listening to the human break into a run as he reaches the bottom of stairs and sprints across the hardwood, slamming the front door shut behind him.

Solitude once again.

Derek doesn't move, letting the familiar silence embrace him like an old friend, although now it feels more like his worst enemy. After some time he lets his gaze wander across the room, taking in the destruction. Without context, it looks like a gang of robbers had ransacked the place and destroyed everything in spite when they couldn't find anything of value. He turns to the wall, remembering when his mother had picked out the color of the paint: 'honeysuckle,' but now the hue was washed out, barely recognizable beneath the charcoal smudges from where the fire had licked the surface. His eyes travel slowly across the spiderweb cracks, halting when they land on the five long gashes where he had just swiped his claws through the enamel. From his stance they suddenly look monstrous, like the nails that did it belonged to a savage beast. He moves forward and slowly reaches out a hand, tracing his fingers delicately down the deep slashes.

It's a perfect fit.

_You'll rip his throat out within a week_

Peter's words echo in his mind, taunting him with how close he had come to doing just that. Disgusted, Derek steps back, startled when something cracks under his boot. He lifts his foot up and glances down, freezing when met with the sight of photo frame.

After some hesitation he slowly bends down and gingerly picks it up off the ground. He brushes a gentle thumb over the cracked glass, hungrily drinking in the sight of his family. His sisters— how they hadn't wanted to take the picture that day because Cora's hair wasn't right and Laura never liked smiling for the camera, but they did it anyway because Talia had wanted it done. His father, who he never got a chance to really know, and his mother— beautiful, wise, and a little scary at times, but always equipped with a warm smile for the family. Something cracks inside of him when he sees his own self, mid-laugh with an arm wrapped playfully around Cora, who was only nine at the time. All remaining anger drains away, leaving behind only an empty, familiar sadness as he stares at her face —all of their faces— frozen in time a week before the fire, back when smiling wasn't something foreign.

He bites his lip, chin puckering with dimples.

_You're running dangerously close to turning soft_

The phrase worms into his conscience, voiced in his uncle's revolted tone. Derek swallows thickly, setting the frame back down gently on the nightstand.

That's what it always came back to. The question of being _soft._ For years Peter drilled into him how emotions like love, sympathy, and compassion only bred weakness and set him up for failure; a detriment to a werewolf's strength. _"Power stems from the fear you elicit in others, Derek,"_ his uncle had spat. _"Do you want to be soft? Because if you think you'll earn anyone's respect like that, you're only fooling yourself."_

But Stiles.

The name pops into his mind unexpectedly, pushing his gaze to the fallen toothbrush by his foot.

Stiles was the epitome of soft; Stiles, who cried without shame and got panic attacks and fainted when his squeamish bone was tickled. The pale, breakable _human_ in the pack who always stuck his neck into danger anyway, forever armed with a baseball bat and a stash of dog jokes as he saved the pack again and again, figuring things out and demonstrating that perhaps being 'soft' wasn't so bad after all. And it flipped Derek upside-down, because Stiles disproved and deemed irrelevant everything Peter preached: power, lack of emotion, even brute strength if it meant coming out on top.

_Power stems from the fear you elicit in others_

But Derek thinks of Stiles. Stiles, with his skinny limbs and expressive features and clumsy feet; hardly someone who provoked fear, but just how powerful the human had been while holding him up in a pool for two hours, when facing off Matt at gunpoint when his father was held hostage, or sprinting into the line of fire to chuck the firebomb at Ennis. The way his hands trembled before a mission —not with excitement, but with fear— and how that made him the bravest of them all.

And Derek thinks of Stiles. Because he, the intimidating, brooding alpha only got shifty, nervous glances and scowls from others. Mothers pulled their children away from him on the streets, Peter didn't give a damn, Isaac and the others avoided him like the plague and even Scott kept him at arm's length during conversations— but Stiles was the one person who actually had the guts to tease him, yell at him, _touch _him.

And now Derek had just scared him away, just like he scared away everybody else.

_you're only fooling yourself_

Derek clenches his fists, gaze jerking from the gashes on the wall, to the picture frame, the toothbrush on the floor, and back to the gashes. He listens to the cold howl of the wind as it gushes in through the broken window, stirring up the feathers at his feet.

"Fuck it," he mutters, and steals one more glance at the photo on the nightstand before bolting into the hallway. He doesn't even realize that he leaves the bedroom door ajar behind him.

_Do you want to be soft?_

The question echoes again as he grabs his jacket off the banister and shoots down the stairs two at a time, but the phrase stops repeating after that.

Because after years of mulling it over, he finally realizes what his answer is.

* * *

><p>Thanks for reading :)<p> 


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